


Conversion

by DiamondBlue4, InhoePublishing



Series: Academy Years - Juncture Point [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Medical Procedures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:55:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 70,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26793232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiamondBlue4/pseuds/DiamondBlue4, https://archiveofourown.org/users/InhoePublishing/pseuds/InhoePublishing
Summary: Ten days in and Jim is marked as a high risk and demoted to Engineering, which is where they put anybody they didn’t want under their noses. Meanwhile, he’d heard that Garrovick had ordered another team down to the planet tnoday, more than sixteen hundred kilometers from where Jim’s team had materialized.It was a mistake. Jim could feel it. He didn’t know what it was, but there was something down there, something that raised all the hairs on the back of his neck.Year Two in Starfleet Academy and Jim is on the Farragut with McCoy when Jim is injured in an explosion and temporary blinded. Meanwhile, several crew die under mysterious circumstances and Jim thinks he knows why. Can he convince the Captain of the danger before it's too late?
Series: Academy Years - Juncture Point [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953835
Comments: 166
Kudos: 137





	1. Chapter 1

Jim fought his way up from the darkness, struggling through thick layers of icy blackness into a murky, dense fog. Dimly, he was aware that he was lying on a soft surface and that something hard and unyielding was firmly sealed over his nose and mouth. The unknown object was suffocating him, stifling him beneath a scent that was sickly sweet and cloying….

His breath came in short, rapid gasps. A deep, pervasive sense of cold gripped his body, chilling him to his core. Chimes and beeps echoed faintly around him, dulled by the fog that encompassed him, sounding faint and far away. What was happening? Where was he? He tried to speak, and panic spiked as his tongue refused to cooperate. All he could manage was a low, drawn-out moan that seemed to emanate from the marrow of his bones, guttural and wrenching. A deep, throbbing pain pulsed behind his eyes, vibrating harshly along the nerves, sending spikes of agony, like lightning flashes, into his skull.

“You’re gonna’ be all right, Jim.” The weary southern drawl penetrated the pain and fog. “You’re in Sickbay. Remember?”

_Bones._

A warm hand pressed against his forehead, comforting and familiar. He forced his heavy eyelids apart but saw only dark shadows behind a dense veil of grey. “B’ns?” His tongue was thick and uncooperative, and he felt dizzy and lightheaded, like the air was too thin. Why were they suffocating him?

“I’m right here, kid. Take is easy. You’re very sick.”

He shivered. “C’ld.”

“I know. You lost a lot of hemoglobin. We’re trying to replace it as fast as we can. Just lie still and breathe.”

_Hemoglobin?_

Muffled voices floated around him, fading in and out.

“Doctor….additional…draws…”

“…5.9…rising…”

“…orders?”

The fog lifted for a moment, the voices sounding closer and clearer.

“Get him another warming blanket and hang another liter of packed cells.”

“Dr. Z’Tar just gave Doctor Stewart the last unit of O-neg. Do you want a synthetic?”

“He’s allergic. Ask for blood donations from the crew. Priority One level request. He needs at least two more units.”

“Right away, doctor.”

The soft, warm weight of a blanket settled on him. He felt Bones tuck it around him. He still shivered, despite the heat enveloping him, the frigid chill radiating from each muscle and cell in shuddering waves. Why was he so cold? Why couldn’t he breathe? Why was the air too thin? It felt as if he were trying to breathe through a heavy barrier.

_I need to leave._

He had something to do. Something important. If he could just remember… 

The sense of urgency built, and he frowned, and he blinked furiously, trying to focus on the dark shapes that hovered around him, before abruptly moving away. The lethargy wrapping his brain stirred sluggishly, synapses suddenly connecting, and he _remembered_. He’d been in the corridor outside Engineering…

His mouth went dry and his heart began to pound.

_Something_ was there. Something _wrong._ A sudden, smothering presence that had just… appeared before smothering him in icy fire. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe—

Bones’ hand moved down from his forehead to cover his eyes, his warm fingers resting against his temple.

“Easy, kid. You’re still having problems with your vision,” Bones said, his drawl slow and soothing. “We took the bandages off, but you still need to rest your eyes. Straining to see will only take them longer to recover.”

He didn’t understand what Bones was talking about, but it didn’t matter. _He remembered now._

He had seen the attack. The alien presence had boarded the ship without warning, a drift of nothing at first, then moving swiftly, ghostly and amorphic, shrouding each crew member as silently as a cloud of fog before they could react. Barely visible to the naked eye, it had been nearly transparent as it moved, the consoles and conduits of engineering clearly visible through its insubstantial form. Nonetheless, it had been a swift and deadly force that left the crew limply sprawled on the decking, eyes open and unseeing, skin leached to an unnatural bone-white.

“It’s h’r.”

“Shhh. You’re okay, Jim. You’re safe. Once we get more blood transfused into you, and get your hemoglobin levels back up, you’ll feel much better, I promise. Your body is oxygen hungry, which is why you’re wearin’ the oxygen mask.”

His tongue still felt thick and it was difficult to talk with the mask pressing into his face. The demanding need for oxygen was a constant ache in his chest, urging him to move, to find better air, before it was too late. His arms felt too heavy to lift, so he tried to move his head to free himself from Bones’ protective touch, but the warm hand remained in place, shading his eyes. He groaned, ensnared in frustration and pain. Bones wasn’t listening to him. No one was listening. It was here, malevolent and hungry, killing….

“Hey, hey. Settle down. Trying to move is only gonna use oxygen you can’t afford to waste.”

The beeps and chimes grew louder and more insistent. He heard raised voices nearby, close to his bed, the insistent-sounding words threaded with alarm.

It took all his willpower to raise his arm and drag it across his body. Grabbing for what he hoped was McCoy’s forearm, his hand slid futilely across the soft fabric, his fingers too weak and clumsy to effectively grasp the material. The shadows at his bedside moved closer as his equilibrium spun, setting the world around him awhirl.

“Here!” He gasped out the word, the warning, with the last of his strength.

A warm hand caught his desperate, scrabbling fingers, the grip solid and warm and reassuring. The hand covering his eyes moved downward to press gently against his cheek. “Jim, listen to me. You need to stop. You’re safe. The ship is safe. You….”

Despair was a sudden crushing weight on his chest. They didn’t understand. He had failed, and they were all going to die.

Bones was going to die.

McCoy’s words faded as exhaustion claimed him. He sank deeper into the cold, dangerous darkness, smothered by the bitter taste of defeat.

# Earlier…

“Doctor McCoy.”

McCoy turned at the sound of his name. Nurse Ria stood just inside the doorway of the small pharmacy stockroom where he had been taking inventory, trying to pass the interminable hours of his shift by doing something semi-productive.

“Cadet Kirk is here for his pre-landing party physical.”

McCoy looked at the chronometer on the data pad and raised a single eyebrow.

“He’s a little early,” Ria confirmed with a wry smile. She’d been on the _Farragut_ for over four years and had no doubt seen her share of overly enthusiastic cadets coming through.

But Jim early for a physical? This was a first. He typically had to chase Jim down to get him to step foot into a medical facility for treatment, whether it was the Academy clinic or Starfleet’s hospital… unless the younger man was dragged in against his will or unconscious. “Put him in bed five. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

He’d retreated to the pharmacy stockroom to do inventory in order to avoid the steady stream of minor aches and pains that had bombarded Sickbay in the past twenty-four hours. The crew members he’d treated had been more in search of a sympathetic ear than any real need for medical intervention. After his sixth ‘take two acetaminophen and get a good night’s sleep’ prescription, he’d been ready to pull his hair out. He was a trauma surgeon, for Christ’s sake, not a surrogate mother. He’d been on the _Farragut_ for a full week and he was already irritated and bored, cursing Boyce every free minute he had – which was often because life for a surgeon on a starship was pure boredom, just as he’d predicted. He was wasted here – again, as he’d predicted.

He finished counting the Devenian Flu vaccine carpules, making a note for the log of the shortage, before stepping out of the room and into the main sickbay area. He still wasn’t used to the cramped space. The beds lined up too closely to each other, ruffling his sense of propriety, providing little-to-no privacy for the patients needing medical care. Up until this assignment, his only exposure to a Starfleet medical facility was Starfleet General which, as one of the top medical centers in the Federation, came equipped with the most advanced technology and plenty of space. The _Farragut_ however….

_“You need to do this,” Boyce said, leaning back in his chair and leveling a steady look at him. “They need another doctor before they can ship out. One of their assigned physicians is out on compassionate leave and I recommended you for the temporary position.”_

_“Send someone else. One of those fresh-out-of-residency lieutenants eager to prove themselves.”_

_“They’re already getting one. Z’Tar.”_

_“Problem solved.” He started to stand but was halted by Boyce’s next words._

_“Not quite. Farragut’s a heavy cruiser with a crew of over four-hundred. Dr. Stewart needs another_ experienced _surgeon, Leonard, as part of the medical team.”_

_“For what? Isn’t this just a kiddie tour for the cadets? Take them out and let them experience life aboard the ship and pretend to be real crew members? Why the hell do they need to two surgeons? Three, if you count Z’Tar.”_

_“Regulations,” Boyce said flatly, and a little too quickly, a flash of some dark emotion visible in his eyes for a moment, “and caution. Look, it’s only for thirty days and it’ll look good on your record.”_

_“I don’t give a damn about my record,” he said stubbornly, locking gazes with Boyce._

_“So I’ve noticed. Think of it this way, then. You’ll get a break from wearing the Academy reds for a month. It will give you a chance to practice your patient-doctor skills in a closed milieu and learn about the impacts of space travel on humanoids.”_

_“I already know all I need to about the impacts of space travel. Thanks, but no thanks.”_

_“I’m not asking, Doctor McCoy.” Boyce smiled humorlessly. “I expect you to be aboard the_ Farragut _when she departs. You’re dismissed.”_

_He stared at Boyce, the man’s words a stark reminder that he wasn’t a civilian anymore. He didn’t have choices. Only orders._

_Boyce softened as he stood. “Don’t look so dismayed, Leonard. You may even enjoy yourself._ Farragut’s _a good ship. Top-of-the-line.”_

McCoy sighed. _Top-of-the-line, my ass_. The ship creaked and groaned more than his ninety-year-old grandmother. He spent hours at night lying awake and listening for the screech of an imminent hull breach. The only good thing about his assignment was that Jim was onboard as part of an honor-posting, a hard-won reward for being top of his class. A familiar face and friend went a long way in making this tour bearable. Even if Jim’s constant enthusiasm at being on the ship irritated the hell out of him.

He found Jim easily in the mostly deserted med bay. The kid was sitting on the biobed, eyes lit up, hands gripping the bed’s edge and vibrating with unspent energy. As a temporary lieutenant, Jim wore the command-gold tunic and McCoy still wasn’t used to seeing him out of the academy reds and looking like a bonafide crewman, instead of the second-year cadet he was. “Don’t you look like the Cheshire cat.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Bones,” Jim said innocently, his blue eyes bright. “I’m here as ordered.”

“I’ll note your cooperation for the record.” He motioned to Jim’s clothes. “Strip down to your skivvies.”

Jim frowned, but hesitated only a second before pulling off his shirts, tossing them aside, then efficiently shucking his pants and boots without, McCoy noted, his usual flare. He’d just hopped back up on the bed when Ria entered the small space.

She handed McCoy Jim’s chart. “Do you want to start with a blood draw?”

He nodded and read the notes from Dr. Stewart, the CMO. The Old Man, as he was called behind his back, had been _Farragut’s_ CMO for over ten years and he knew his way around alien viruses and their epidemiology, having penned his share of respected journal articles on the subjects. He ran Sickbay like it was a satellite wing in Starfleet General’s Infectious Disease department. McCoy wasn’t surprised to see the long list of tests required before clearing Jim for landing party duty. McCoy had been brought up to speed on the protocol early this morning during Stewart’s daily medical staff briefings.

_“We’ve got six crew to clear for landing party duty by the end of the day,” Steward said. “Captain wants them on the ground tomorrow. This is an unexplored planet, and this will be the first time any personnel have gone dirtside. I don’t want any slip ups, gentlemen. I’ve seen something as simple as an existing minor laceration kill a crew member because a physician didn’t think about the possibility of an unknown airborne pathogen infecting an open wound in the skin. Also, one member of the team is a junior cadet with a history of allergies. One of the away team should be equipped with an epi hypospray as a precaution.”_

_McCoy didn’t react. Jim had told him last night of his assignment, all but bursting at the seams with excitement. In order to maximize the experience, he’d been assigned the duties of preparing for the assignment as if he were the away team leader. In selecting crew members for his team, choosing a landing site and reviewing every piece of data the probes had sent back, Jim would gain valuable command experience. And if he was deemed thorough enough in his preparations, the senior away team member – the real team leader who would be supervising the group while they were on the planet – would allow him to continue in the role planetside. And Jim was nothing if not thorough._

_McCoy had congratulated him, repressing the small spurt of worry. This was the life Jim was working so hard to earn for himself – a place aboard a ship out in the black. It wasn’t fair to superimpose his own personal feelings about such a fate onto his friend._

_“If it’s an unidentified planet, how do we clear the team members medically, if we don’t know the existing hazards?” Z’Tar asked._

_McCoy almost rolled his eyes. Z’Tar’s posture was ram-rod straight - as if he were presenting to the Surgeon General of Starfleet instead of being part of a stand-up briefing in the corner of the small med bay. McCoy could practically feel the man’s anxiety from where he stood. The resident had been as bored as McCoy, constantly chomping at the bit for a real-life emergency, and running his mouth. He was probably hoping this survey excursion would be it._

_McCoy couldn’t share the man’s hope for some action. Jim would be going down to an unidentified planet. Boring and uneventful would be welcome outcomes._

_“Same way you clear patients for surgery, Dr. Z’Tar. We’re not looking for absolute perfection, just good overall health and fitness, plus elimination of any red-flags. You’ll need to obtain a solid pre-survey baseline to use as a comparison for their post-survey physicals when they return. All away team members are required to report immediately to Sickbay and obtain medical clearance before returning to regular duty.”_

_“What’s the planet like?” Z’Tar asked._

_Stewart pinned him with an incredulous stare, as if he couldn’t believe the green resident was only now asking. “Class M, uncultivated, populated with flora of differing types and sizes, and uninhabited by anything but insects according to the scans.”_

_“Sounds like paradise,” Z’Tar said, with a smirk, apparently oblivious to his gaffe._

_“So, we test for vector-borne diseases and monitor for any allergic responses,” McCoy concluded. Jim had spent hours sharing the probe’s information with him. He’d already known what he needed to do before he walked into Sickbay this morning._

_“Yes, and the meteorologists say it’s going to be hot with a dew point of seventy, so, let’s make sure everyone knows to stay well hydrated. Each member should be equipped with salt tablets and plenty of water for the reconnoiter.”_

Physical workups for landing parties were detailed, complex and thoroughly documented. The protocols in place were there to protect the crew. A sloppy workup could mean the death of a crewman on the ground, or worse, an epidemic on the ship upon their return. The nurses and techs had delighted in regaling him with tales of alien viruses, air-borne spores and micro-invasions brought back by unsuspecting crewmen.

The _Farragut_ had been in orbit around Tycho IV for four days, analyzing the atmosphere, sending down probes, cataloging topography and geology, trying to determine if a landing party would be safe upon the surface. Yesterday, Captain Garrovick had made his decision. A small landing party would be allowed to beam down in order to take samples, and make an on-the-ground assessment regarding the need for future surveys.

In addition, Jim had been ordered to prepare and act as the away team leader, the first of the cadets chosen for duties beyond shadowing their assigned mentors.

Even with a designated experienced officer accompanying Jim as the silent but real away team leader, one who would be monitoring his decisions and step in if needed, Garrovick had bestowed a huge honor on Jim. Everyone knew that being the first one selected to do more than observe meant the captain thought you were the top cadet of the group. The buzz among the crew had started as soon as the announcement had been made and Jim had been practically walking on air ever since, his smile blinding.

Ria finished with the blood draw and began to set up a tray near the bed. Jim sat on the edge of the bed, wearing only his briefs and eyeing the tray of medical equipment suspiciously.

“Lie back,” McCoy instructed Jim, and moved to the side of the bed. He took a brief, visual assessment of Jim’s physical appearance. Pale skin, smooth and without any blemishes or injuries. He was lean, his musculature clearly visible under thin, taut skin. A little too lean. He looked up at the monitor. Jim was several kilos under his ideal weight, a change from the last time he’d examined the younger man. Not surprising given how Jim had pushed himself to finish the last of his classes and get his advanced hand-to-hand certification before boarding the _Farragut._ “How’s your leg feeling?”

Jim looked both surprised and uncomfortable. “Fine.”

McCoy pursed his lips in thought, staring at Jim for a long moment before turning his attention to the leg in question. The scar where Grady had sliced Jim with a laser-knife had healed, and even the surgical incision was no longer visible to the naked eye. While the original injury had healed, Jim had reinjured the same leg two months ago during a high-velocity drop-training exercise.

Another cadet had missed the target window for opening his chute and collided violently with Jim, sending Jim reeling, his landing trajectory now off course. They’d become tangled, the other cadet’s chute no longer functioning, and Jim had torn the muscle in his leg trying to keep both of them from landing in the trees, or worse. McCoy had spent three hours repairing the same muscle he’d sewn together months earlier.

McCoy gently examined the left quad, keeping his hand on the thigh as he flexed Jim’s leg. The leg had full range of motion but the muscle felt tight. “How are your muscle spasms? Getting better?”

Jim shrugged. “More or less.”

McCoy gave him a narrow-eyed look before lowering the leg back to the bed. “I said you could exercise, not play war games with the entire security team. You’re overtaxing the muscle. The last thing you need, kid, is another tear.”

Jim made a face. “We don’t play war games, Bones. They’re called Advanced Conflict sims. Exercises designed to assess combat readiness.”

“Whatever. Do less of it, or you’re going to end up injured again.”

“Training was important; I had to be ready for anything. And it paid off, Bones. I’m leading my first landing party.”

“It’s an uninhabited planet, Jim. Nothing larger than a beetle exists there,” McCoy said dryly as he continued his exam. “I’m going to lower your briefs and check that area, then you can turn over, so I can examine your other side.” Jim grimaced but kept his mouth shut.

The last time he’d had Jim on an exam bed had been two months ago, and he wanted to know if there were any other injuries Jim was hiding. The younger man had been pushing himself to complete courses before his assignment on the _Farragut_ , and they’d had more than one sharp-edged conversation about slowing down to a more sensible pace.

“The beetles on Alpha Centauri V are half a meter long and weigh more than five kilos,” Jim said, rebutting McCoy’s argument.

“I don’t think you’re going to find any giant beetles on Tycho IV.” McCoy palpated Jim’s taut abdomen. The kid had muscles on top of muscles. “Any tenderness when I press?”

“No.”

He checked the area beneath and on both sides of Jim’s navel, next to his sharply defined hipbones. “Cough for me,” he requested, fingertips probing for hernias or weak areas as Jim complied. “Good news. I don’t think any of Tycho IV’s beetles are a match for you. Now, turn over.”

Jim frowned as flopped onto his stomach. “The first landing party to set down on Centi III encountered walking trees and a hidden civilization just below the surface. Scanners don’t pick up everything, Bones. That’s why we’re going down there, to make an onsite analysis. Take samples. Explore. Anything can happen. We’re supposed to be prepared.”

Jesus, Jim’s enthusiasm was alarming. He was vibrating with energy, making it impossible for him to hold still. McCoy stared grimly at the knobs of Jim’s vertebrae, an even clearer sign he needed to put on a few kilos. The bands of muscles along Jim’s shoulders and back flexed as McCoy probed his spinal column. Jim’s back had been sore for a week after the chute incident.

“Any pain or stiffness when you bend or lift?”

“Nothing, Bones. I’m good.”

But the body beneath his hands thrummed and twitched, as McCoy performed a careful examination. “Skin integrity looks good,” he said, pulling Jim’s briefs back into place and moving his inspection to Jim’s legs. “Nothing wrong with an uneventful landing party, either.”

Jim huffed. “Now you’re just being a worry-wart.”

“The hell I am. Okay, you can turn back over.” He turned to Ria. “Ask the lab to run a full IgE antibody screen for all phylum Arthropoda to establish our immunologic baseline. And bring me a dose of Feneladine.”

Jim frowned, and pushed over onto his back. “What’s that?”

“A delayed-action antihistamine medication used to treat allergic responses.”

“Bones, I haven’t had an allergic reaction in months.”

“You’ve been on Earth your entire life. It’s where human beings evolved and we have a good handle on what to expect, interaction-wise, from the native insect life.”

Something flickered in Jim’s eyes for a moment, then vanished. “I don’t need any meds, Bones. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re allergy-prone, Jim. I’m not sending you down to a planet without the appropriate labs and a prophylactic dose of antihistamines. Dr. Stewart would have my head, and rightfully so.” He made a note on Jim’s chart.

The PADD chimed, and McCoy opened the blinking file from the lab appended to Jim’s chart. Some of the blood work results were back, and while all the significant indicators were normal so far, his electrolytes and blood glucose levels were off, which meant Jim had likely been up all night, working sims, and probably hadn’t eaten since yesterday.

“How are you sleeping?”

“Seriously?”

McCoy looked up from the chart at Jim. “Yes, seriously. It says right here on the form, assess sleeping habits.”

Jim sighed. “I’m sleeping fine. Like a baby.”

As a senior medical officer, McCoy had been assigned quarters on the officer deck, three decks above Jim’s assigned bunk space. Jim had visited him almost every night to hang out for a few hours, griping that the three other ensigns in his cabin made it impossible to study the ship’s schematics. Last night had been no different, except Jim hadn’t left until after gamma shift began – still riding the high of being selected for landing party duty - and McCoy suspected that he hadn’t gone to his quarters to sleep. “Let me rephrase the question: how much did you sleep last night?”

“Enough.”

Which was Jim-speak for an hour, two at the most. McCoy checked the final area of the clearance form. “Ria, get a meal, please, for Cadet Kirk. Two thousand calories, and include a balance of both protein and carbs. Also, I’ll need a dose of both the Pirillian flu vaccine and Granger’s antiviral.”

McCoy looked back at Jim. “You’re missing two of Stewart’s required vaccines. I want you to remain in Sickbay for an hour after we administer them to ensure you don’t have an allergic reaction.”

Jim sat up, dangling his legs off the edge of the bed. He eyed his clothes. “I’m done, then?”

“Is something wrong with your hearing? I just told you you’re going to need to stay in Sickbay for observation for an hour,” McCoy said sourly before deftly pressing the Feneladine hypo to Jim’s bicep.

“Yeah, but I’m good to go on the landing party, right?” Jim rubbed the injection site.

It was McCoy’s turn to sigh. “If you don’t have an allergic reaction to the vaccines _and_ you eat something, you’ll be cleared.”

Ria returned and handed him two hypos. McCoy checked the medication in each and pressed them, in quick succession, to Jim’s arm. “You can get dressed but stay on the biobed. The nurses will be checking you every ten minutes.”

“What am I supposed to do for an hour?” he asked as he stepped into his pants. “I have to prepare for departure. I need to coordinate with my team.”

“Your team is here,” McCoy said, pointing to the people who were now occupying beds at the other end of the bay. “No one’s leaving until medical clears them.”

Jim looked at the other crewmembers and turned, opening his mouth—

“And don’t even think about convening a meeting in Sickbay,” McCoy said sternly, reading Jim’s mind. “You’re on my clock for the next hour.”

A medic approached carrying a tray and set it down on the lap table with a nod, just as Jim finished dressed. He uncovered the tray, scowling.

“Eat,” McCoy ordered, before striding off.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim stood with his four member crew, crowded into the small transporter room, waiting for Lieutenant Evans to arrive and trying not to look anxious or impatient.

He made a conscious effort to relax his shoulders and stand quietly, ruthlessly suppressing the energy coursing through his body. He couldn’t afford to look nervous. Or scared. Evans would take over if thought Jim couldn’t handle the assignment.

The other members were restless, shuffling their feet, standing nearly shoulder to shoulder, and looking uncomfortable in the warm, cramped space. Transporter rooms, like the one on the Farragut, weren’t designed to accommodate extended waits by large groups of people. He should have thought of that before he’d told the team to assemble here, instead of out in the hallway.

The transporter technician eyed him with amusement and he wondered how many cadets had made a similar mistake in the past. He was aware of the crew watching him, their faces holding both anticipation and uncertainty. He’d briefed them thoroughly, so there really wasn’t anything left to say or do except transport down.

And they couldn’t do that until Evans arrived.

He forced himself to remain at ease, nodding an acknowledgement when he made random eye contact, uncertain what else he should do. The team members weren’t cadets like he was, but seasoned Starfleet personnel who’d been on the ship for several years. But two of them had never been on landing party duty before and would be looking to him for guidance. He’d hand-picked each of them from the long roster Commander Alvarez had handed him only twenty-four hours earlier. He hadn’t had much time to actually get to know them personally outside of the few hours he’d spent with them in the briefing. There just hadn’t been time for idle chit-chat. Discussions, and subsequent questions, had been focused on making the visit to the planet a positive experience for everyone while they achieved the designated mission outcomes.

Lieutenant Evans had reviewed his final list with a curious eye.

_“Are you sure you don’t want Simmons instead of Xen? Simmons has more seniority and xeno-ecology is his specialty.”_

_“Ensign Xen was born on the Gemini Colony, sir. He worked on the Botany and Terraforming Project for eight years before joining Starfleet. Tycho IV is similar enough to Gemini II, before it was terraformed, to be familiar territory for him. Who better to assess the merits for potential agriculture and colonialization than an experienced post-colony citizen?”_

_Evans nodded thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought of his selection in that light, but it makes sense. And Ensign Taavi? She didn’t perform well on her initial away team assignment. Commander Ch’Val, who was leading that team, dinged her for nervousness and excessive questions. Her second trip down to a planet didn’t go any better. In fact, she lost her rank for six months for failure to execute the team leader’s directives when ordered. If she wasn’t such a damn good engineer, Captain Garrovick would have grounded her permanently. No one wants to work with her off ship.”_

_In short, she was a repeat offender. Evans was just being politically expedient because her previous two away team leaders had, in his opinion, been dicks._

_Jim had read her record. Her first planet-side experience had occurred under what he considered to be a poorly prepared and complacent landing party leader. Taavi had questioned him several times about the safety of continuing the laser measurements of the ruins the team was investigating. With twilight settling over the area, she had suggested the team return in better light to finish the assessment in order to avoid the possibility of attracting native fauna with the bright, flashing lights. The jerk heading up the team had grown short with her increasing nervousness and ordered her back to the ship._

_Twenty minutes later, two members of the landing party had been attacked by large flying reptiles, one of them sustaining serious injuries. Instead of accepting responsibility, or agreeing that Taavi had been right, the guy had blamed her in his post-mission write up, claiming that if she hadn’t delayed the work being carried out, no one would have been injured._

_The second time, she had disobeyed the direct orders of the engineering team sent down to Alpha VIII. Instead of erecting a water replacement system where she had been told, she moved it and the team a few kilometers off the mark because – as the record stated – the previous site was unstable. And she had been right. If she had listened to the ranking officer, no one would have survived the mission. She was smart and she had followed her gut, and her decision had saved the lives of every member of the team. In doing so, she had angered her superior, but she’d got the job done. While Jim knew she should have consulted the ranking officer before changing the mission parameters, he didn’t think her actions had been_ that _egregious._

_And it had cost her any chance of advancement in her career. He hoped to give her the opportunity to remedy that by including her on the away team._

_“I think she’ll be a great asset, sir.”_

_“How so?” Evans probed, sounding dubious._

_Jim kept his expression calm. Surely Evans had read his file? He would have if their positions were reversed. His legal transgressions and resulting incarcerations before joining Starfleet were a matter of public record. If someone dug deep enough into his admission records, they would find them. But maybe Evans had relied on the fact that Garrovick had chosen him first and hadn’t bothered to do more than a superficial review of Jim’s skills and aptitudes. While Pike had assured him that the past was the past, from Starfleet’s perspective, Jim didn’t trust that any organization was that naïve…_

_“She has great instincts and one of the highest spatial sense ratings on record. We could use her skills when investigating the areas of interest on the topographical mapping.”_

_Evans finally nodded. “It’s unorthodox, but it’s your landing party and your mission, Lieutenant Kirk. I’m just there to supervise, if needed. I won’t interfere unless lives are in danger.”_

The door to the transporter room slid open and Evans strode into the room. Looking Jim directly in the eyes, he smiled. “Let’s get this show started.”

Jim nodded and stepped onto the transporter platform. His team quickly assembled behind him and Evans took an inconspicuous place near the back. The transporter technician looked up from the console with a nod, and Jim said, “Energize.”

When the transporter released them, the first thing Jim felt was a blast of air so hot that it nearly took his breath away. The probes had shown temperatures ranging from 39 degrees to 41 degrees with dew points into the high sixties, leaving the atmosphere oppressive and sticky, despite the stiff breeze. But it felt hotter and more humid than that, and Jim reminded himself that reality was always more visceral than any data displayed in a report.

The second thing he was acutely aware of was the odor.

“Christ,” Larson said somewhere off to his right. “It’s like a fucking sauna.”

“More like a morgue,” Taavi said. “A hot one.” The tall brunette held her nose. “Smells like something died.”

Taavi wasn’t wrong. The odor of decay was heavy… and sickeningly familiar. Jim’s heart pounded as the past came rushing back.

He would never forget that smell – decomposing plants and lifelessness. Starvation. Death. For an instant he was thirteen years old again, standing in a field of rotting crops and listening as Kodos condemned him, and the others standing around him, to death. The screams as the governor’s security personnel opened fire, executing half the population, even as people scrambled to escape, trampling others in their mindless terror.

Jim slammed his mind shut on the disturbing memories, memories that always seemed to surface from the dark hole he had buried them in when triggered by the odor of rot and death.

It had been years since the last flashback.

Swallowing past the sudden rise of nausea, he stepped out from the landing zone to look around and get his bearings. They’d materialized in a small clearing. A forest of thick foliage surrounded them, dense enough to obstruct their view. A canopy of leaves stretched overhead, blocking out the sun and trapping the heat close to the ground.

“At least there’s a breeze,” Taavi said, her eyes alert.

 _If you could call the fetid breath of hell blowing over them a breeze_ , Jim thought with a grimace.

Its origins were anyone’s guess, since their current perspective was extremely limited.

“This must be like old home week for you, Xen,” Park said, taking a few steps away from them.

“This is worse than Gemini II,” Xen said, tugging his collar away from his neck. “Gemini II had open fields with underground waterways, and it wasn’t nearly as hot and humid. Where did they set us down? In the middle of a damn jungle?”

Good question, Jim thought. Alvarez had chosen the landing site based on data from the probes. The findings had been used to create the mapping of the planet’s topography and, subsequently, select a site that looked promising for further study. The landing party was to make a full assessment of the area, including relative cartography – aka was the terrain conducive to being lived in? – which was going to be impossible given their current location and limited sight distance. 

Had Alvarez made an error in interpreting the data from the probes? Or had he set them down in the middle of the forest on purpose? Whatever the reason, they had to find a way out of the dense growth. They couldn’t evaluate anything from here.

“What are we going to do?” Park asked. “The forest growth is pretty thick.”

“Find the nearest exit,” Jim quipped, and turned to his left. “Xen, get some readings on the foliage and take a few samples. I want to make sure nothing’s toxic before we move through it. Larson, begin scanning a kilometer out in all directions. Let’s see if there’s more open territory anywhere nearby.”

“Gladly,” the man said, moving off with his equipment.

“Taavi,” he said, turning. “Work with Larson and find us a path out of here.”

Larson scowled at Taavi but focused on his scanner without protest.

Park, the only botanist on the team, was staring up at the trees. Jim followed his gaze. The foliage had created an unnaturally dense crown that hung over the area, floating above the narrow trunks as if something had laid the massive network of leaves over them, rather than the trees themselves producing the greenery.

“Trees are not supposed to do that,” Park said, frowning.

Jim tilted his head and looked at where the man was pointing. He felt trickles of sweat roll down his forehead from his hairline and drip off the end of his nose. He was glad Bones had made him drink a few liters of water last night to hydrate for the mission.

“The crowns are connected. Look.” Park pointed to an area high above them. “See how the foliage has moved horizontally, creating a blanket above the trees. That’s probably the significant growth zone. But the trees look… engineered. I’ve never seen a forest anywhere like this.”

To Jim’s untrained eyes, it looked like any canopy of thick growth, similar to those that had existed in Earth’s rainforests, before they were destroyed. But he trusted Park. And if the man said it was unusual, he believed him. “Get as many detailed scans of the trees as you can. We can run it through ship’s computers when we get back.”

Park looked at him. “I’d sure love to get up there and take a closer look. See how it formed.”

“I don’t blame you,” Jim said, covering his objection with an understanding smile, to lessen the sting. “Maybe there’ll be time later, but right now we have to find a way out, so we can get started on the terrain evaluation.”

Park nodded and began to scan, moving away.

Jim wiped at the rivulets of perspiration on his forehead. Larson was right; it was a fucking sauna. Nothing he hadn’t expected, except for the stench. His stomach flipped, and he desperately hoped he wasn’t going to be sick.

_Don’t think about it. You’re not there._

He turned, catching sight of Evans. The lieutenant was watching him closely. He swallowed hard, forcing the nausea down.

_Don’t get spooked. It’s his job to keep an eye on you. It’s normal. It’s fine._

With a brief nod, he walked over to see if Larson and Taavi had made any progress, anxious to find a way out of the sweltering heat. In the open fields the heat was bound to be less oppressive, even if the ambient temperature was still scorching. They were cleared for four hours on the planet, but prepared for five, and he didn’t want to waste any more time than necessary stuck in this jungle setting. But before he could join them, Park’s exclamation captured his attention.

“That’s weird,” Park said, staring down at his tricorder. “There aren’t any insects registering on the scanner.”

“Maybe they’re with whatever died,” Taavi said flippantly over her shoulder.

Park looked at Jim, his expression puzzled. “Didn’t the probes indicate there was insect life?”

“Maybe we’re in the wrong area,” Jim said slowly, looking apprehensively up at the thick treetops. It felt like the massive blanket was just waiting to fall and smother all of them under its hot, wet heat. “Or it’s the wrong time of day.”

“Who cares,” Larson said, “As long as they’re not biting, good riddance.”

Jim wanted to agree. Bones had been worried about his allergies and had gone off on an epic rant about toxic plant life, unknown venomous spiders, insects carrying diseases….

_Bones held out a thin hypo._

_“What’s this?”_

_“Epinephrine. You might not feel the bite that causes a problem. Use it if you feel a reaction starting, if your chest becomes tight or your airway feels constricted. You know the symptoms.”_

_Jim made a face. “I’m not going to have an allergic reaction, Bones, I—”_

_“Stewart made it a condition of clearing your way down to the planet,” McCoy said flatly, offering no room for discussion. “Take it or stay behind.”_

He’d taken it and tucked it in his boot. Xen was carrying the medical kit and every member of the team had their own salt tablets and hydration packs. Too bad no one in Medical had thought to include anti-nausea meds. Although he was certain there was some in the med kit, he’d be damned if he was going to be the first to ask for one.

 _Suck it up, Kirk. You_ wanted _to be here._

It took the team another hour before they located the best direction for exiting the area. They were lucky; the scans showed they weren’t in very deep if they kept to a narrow radius on the scanner.

“About a kilometer as the crow flies,” Larson said, pointing. “That way.”

“We’re not crows,” Taavi said flatly and turned to Jim. “This isn’t going to be easy, sir. It’s not exactly a straight line out of here.”

Despite their circumstances, Jim brightened at Taavi’s use of ‘sir’. Technically, she outranked him. She was using it as a courtesy, maybe a ‘thank you’ for including her in the landing party.

He nodded, acknowledging her comment. She was right. Navigating a complex, unfamiliar terrain was far from simple. He’d learned that the hard way.

“I’m aware, but we can’t do our mission from here. Ensign Taavi, you take lead and plot us the most direct course out of here. Xen and Park, you’re on left and right flank. Larson, bring up the rear. Let’s move. It’s not getting any cooler under these trees.”

Jim relayed the plans to the ship as he followed Taavi into the jungle.

“Everyone stay close,” Jim ordered. “Don’t lose sight of Ensign Taavi.”

Another hour and a half later and the team, hot and exhausted, emerged from the jungle onto the edge of a vast tundra.

Thick carpets of moss and lichen covered the ground as far as the eye could see, a kaleidoscope of a thousand shades of green that made the ground look as if it were a pointillist painting. Their immediate area was fairly flat and nondescript except for a short outcropping of crumbling rocks just to their left. The boulders were more square than round, and lay in a staggered pattern, like a child’s tumbled and abandoned block tower. Beyond that was nothing. Oddly, despite being out in the open, the air was still. Nothing moved. Everything was eerily silent.

Jim surveyed the area, wiping away the sweat that was stinging his eyes. His shirt was saturated. Even the waistband of his pants was soaked. The joy of being on planet was rapidly losing its cachet.

The sun burned lower in the sky over the bare horizon, and the heat was intense.

“It’s not any cooler here,” Taavi said, tugging at her wet collar. “And we lost the breeze.”

“Where are the insects?” Park asked again, looking around.

“Would you shut up about the fucking insects,” Larson said. He looked wilted and flushed in the heat.

“But there are supposed to be insects.”

“Enough,” Jim said, taking control of the situation. The hot air still reeked. He’d been fighting off nausea since they’d materialized, and the excessive heat wasn’t making it any better.

He consulted his wrist unit. “We’ve only got about three hours of daylight left before the sun sinks below the horizon. Spread out and get the samples we need. Larson and Xen, start mapping the area. Park, I want samples from the vegetation and soil. We need to work quickly and efficiently.” He forced a smile. “The sooner we finish, the sooner we’ll get a cool shower and a cold drink. Speaking of which, everyone should take a minute to hydrate, if you haven’t drunk anything in the last half hour.”

Turning to Taavi, he said, “You’re with me, Ensign.”

They headed toward the rock structure.

“Where are we going, Lieutenant Kirk?” Taavi asked, keeping in step with him.

“I want a closer look at those rocks,” he said, nodding toward the structure-like spill. “They don’t look natural.” The jumbled blocks of stone weren’t as close as he had thought. The featureless terrain was deceiving. It took ten minutes to make their way across the to them and by the time they stood at the base of the first lump of stone, the sun had dipped further, and they were sweating heavily.

“You into geology, sir?” Taavi asked, craning her neck to get a better look at the rocks. Up close, the squared-off blocks were enormous, easily 150 meters long and over 50 meters tall.

“What do you see?” he asked.

“A pile of hot rocks. Whatever they’re made of, they really absorb the sun’s rays. It’s like standing next to a blast furnace.” She ran her hand along the back of her neck, lifting her hair to cool her skin.

“Look again.”

She did and shrugged. “Still looks like a pile of rocks to me, sir.”

“A very engineered pile of rocks.” A faint odor of sweetness filled his nostrils and a wave of nausea swelled unexpectedly. He swallowed hard, the taste of vomit in the back of his throat.

She frowned and peered at the stones. “They do almost look carved,” she said reluctantly. “You don’t think it’s a natural formation?”

“Do you?”

She stared at him. “Scans from the probes verified that the planet’s uninhabited, Kirk.”

“Now. But maybe that wasn’t always the case.”

Her frown deepened. “There’s nothing in the probe’s data that suggests a former civilization, and a pile of rocks doesn’t either, no matter how weird they look. I’m not a geologist, but this is probably just a coincidence.”

He nodded reluctantly, staring at the tumbled rectangles of rock. Wrecked structure or natural formation? Her take on it was probably right, but…. He started walking around the thick base, examining the shape, the way some of the other rocks were resting. They looked… layered.

It was too perfect. The weathered edges had been sharp at one time and the design reminded him of the Inca dwellings on Earth. He picked his way along the structure, keeping one eye on the away team, and running his hand over the hot surface. No obvious signs of tool use…

The far corner suddenly seemed a million miles away and he stopped, looking back at Taavi. She was eyeing the setting sun with a worried look.

He didn’t have much time for further investigation.

“Okay?” she asked as he slowly made his way back to her, thinking hard.

“Get some scans of this.”

“We should head back to the others.” She was watching him closely. “We’ve all been in this heat for hours.”

“I want some scans before we leave.”

“We’re losing the light.”

“We’ve got time for a couple of scans,” he said firmly, his voice calm, despite his racing pulse.

She hesitated for a long moment before pulling out her tricorder. She moved along the structure, stopping periodically to get a full scan image, as Jim back-pedaled to see the top of the rocks. In the lowering light, the blocks of stone looked like polished walls.

He blinked. The sun was casting deep shadows that made the outcropping almost appear as if it were moving. He took a few more steps backwards, lifting his hand to shade his eyes from the sun. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and peered at the rock face again. 

His breath froze.

Something was moving.

Like a jellyfish swimming in the ocean, the pulsing cloud was nearly transparent, the sunlight glinting on its luminous, misty shape. It floated effortlessly across the face of the second tier, moving quickly, before disappearing behind the far edge of the rock.

A shiver swept through him and the hairs on his body stood up in dire warning. Still shading his eyes, his gaze glued to the rock face high above him, he ran, trying to catch sight of the cloud’s location – and collided hard with Taavi.

Her tricorder fell to the mossy ground, landing with a soft thud, their two bodies staggering as they attempted to keep their footing.

“What the—” Taavi yelped, rubbing her shoulder.

“Sorry, Ensign.” Jim swayed, putting a hand to his stomach where her elbow had rammed his gut, feeling the muscles clench beneath his fingers. Christ, he wasn’t going to puke, was he?

“You all right, sir? You look like you’re going to lose your breakfast.”

“I thought I saw something,” he said, panting, ignoring her question. “Up there, moving along the top of the rocks.”

She picked up the tricorder and eyed him skeptically. “Like what? There’s no life forms on this planet other than insects, and we haven’t seen any of those yet today.”

He shook his head, looking up the rocks again, fighting off a wave of dizziness. His head had begun to pound from his exertions, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, fighting the pain. “Maybe it was just a patch of mist. It moved quickly, though, considering there’s no breeze.”

She fished something out of her small pouch. “Take one of these, and then drink some water. You look wrung out, sir.” A small smile curved her lips. “And, respectfully, I’m not carrying you back, no matter how much I appreciate you including me on this excursion.”

He returned her smile, taking the small capsule she was offering. He popped it in his mouth. The bitter liquid salt spilled over his tongue. It did nothing for his nausea and he quickly chased the taste with a few mouthfuls of water.

Ignoring his headache, he looked up at the piled rocks again. Shadows didn’t move in the opposite direction of the sun, and shadows weren’t transparent or luminous. He didn’t believe it was ground fog or concentrated humidity, either. It had to be something else.

Jim’s communicator beeped, startling him from his thoughts.

“Kirk here.”

“Alverez here, Kirk. How is it going?”

Jim looked at the team thirty meters away. They were closing their packs. “We have the samples and scans.”

“Good job. We’ll beam you back.”

“Not just yet, sir,” Jim said quickly. “We found what might be a structure of some kind, and I want to explore it a bit more before we leave. Take some additional readings.”

Pause.

“You and your team have been down there over four hours, Kirk. Five hours was your maximum time limit given the surface conditions.”

“I’m aware, sir, but I’m pretty sure I saw something unusual and I want to take a closer look.” Jim waited for a response, eyeing Taavi who was trying to disguise her annoyance over the announced delay.

“All right, Kirk, but be quick about it. You’ve got thirty minutes, then we’re going to beam you and the rest of the party up, whether you’re ready or not. Alvarez out.”

Jim closed the communicator and ordered Taavi to go and round up the rest of the landing party. He’d make a pass around the structure as quickly as he could while he waited for them to arrive.

* * *

McCoy leaned against the small desk that comprised the nursing station on the _Farragut_ and frowned at the empty Sickbay. He’d been waiting for hours, filling the time with busywork until the landing party returned, so that he could do the team’s post-mission clearance exams. With any luck, Jim would be walking into Sickbay anytime now, and his exam would nicely occupy the remaining hour of McCoy’s shift. He’d spent the day inventorying equipment and re-organizing drawers. Twice. He was going to lose his goddamned mind on this trip.

“One more hour,” Ria said from behind him, reading his mind.

He turned his head quickly, catching the impish grin on her face. “Which will feel like six. And I intend to hang around long enough to do Jim’s check, no matter when he arrives. I want to make sure the kid is okay.”

“Could be worse,” Ria said. “Last month a biofilm bacteria contaminated the drink replicators and we had patients vomiting all along the corridors of decks four and six. Garrovick read maintenance the riot act.”

Food poisoning and flu, how exciting. What made Boyce think those types of experiences were going to enhance his record? He hadn’t stepped foot in a surgical suite since boarding this floating tin can and the most exciting thing that had happened was a flash burn in engineering the second day he was onboard. He’d taken to working out with Jim just to pass the time.

At least tonight would be entertaining. He and Jim had planned to share dinner and he was sure Jim would spend hours regaling him with a minute-by-minute report of his time on Tycho IV.

Davi, a tall Caitian male nurse approached the desk and sighed heavily, tail twitching. “Any word on the landing party’s ETA?”

Ria shook her head. “Why are you so antsy? You got a hot date?”

Davi, who, as far as McCoy had observed, lacked any sense of humor, looked at the chronometer and said, “They’re late. The Old Man said it was going to be four hours.”

McCoy scowled. He hadn’t heard that piece of news. Had something gone wrong?

“Relax,” Ria said. “When has a landing party ever been on time? Gung-ho cadet, uncharted planet—”

_“Code Blue. Medical team to the transporter room. Code Blue. Medical team to the transporter room.”_

The overhead announcement boomed through the small Sickbay, interrupting their conversation.

Davi tapped his communication badge. “On our way,” he confirmed.

“I knew it was too quiet,” Ria said mournfully, grabbing a large medical kit from the cabinet. She turned to McCoy. “Get your game face on, doc.”

McCoy scowled and took a better grip on the medical kit she’d shoved into his hands. He knew for a fact that it was stocked for just about anything, since he’d inventoried it himself, not two hours ago.

Davi and Ria each grabbed a tricorder, and Ria shouldered her own equipment bag. Their smooth, coordinated actions eased some of the worry churning in his gut. Since they hadn’t been given any information, he didn’t know what to expect, but they didn’t look unduly concerned over the abrupt summons.

Different world; different rules, he told himself with a grimace. It wasn’t the same as a trauma coming into the Emergency Room at Starfleet General, where the vitals and details of the situation were relayed well before the patient arrived, so they could be prepared with the right equipment and personnel. No, that made too much sense. Instead, they were expected to hustle their asses _away_ from the well-stocked Sickbay.

“What’s the problem do you think?”

She shrugged as they ran out the door and down the corridor. “We won’t know until we get there and do an assessment. It’s probably the landing party returning since it’s the transporter room we’re headed for.” She dodged two crewmen in the corridor, her ponytail swinging wildly. “And if they’re calling us there, rather than having them come to Sickbay, it means they’ve got them inside a containment field because of a possible bio-hazard or they aren’t able to walk.”

That was just fucking great. There was a damn big difference between airborne pathogens and broken bones and blood loss. Was Jim hurt? Had he had an allergic reaction? Was someone dying? He looked at Davi and Ria as they ran but their faces were calm masks. Bravado or experience?

The moment McCoy entered the transporter room the odor of vomit hit him. The landing party was sitting on the steps and along the walls of the transporter platform. They were flushed and breathing rapidly, some holding their head in their hands. All of them looked ready to drop, their hair and clothing sweat-soaked.

Ria and Davi had their scanners out and were focused on the first two crew members closest to them. McCoy zeroed in on Jim, who sat on the first step, vomiting violently onto the deck.

“Take it easy, Jim.” Kneeling down and expertly avoiding the pool of vomit, McCoy pressed his fingers to the side of Jim’s neck. He felt the pulse thudding rapidly beneath his fingertips. He captured Jim’s face in his hands. Despite the sweaty hair, Jim’s skin was hot and dry. “Dizzy?”

Jim’s eyes were dazed, and he listed to the right, McCoy’s grip the only thing holding him upright. “Jim, can you hear me?”

“What?” Jim mumbled. He began to shiver.

Confusion, high heart rate, dehydration. He knew immediately what the diagnosis was without the benefit of a scanner. The damn idiot.

“They have heatstroke,” Ria said and turned to the transporter technician. “Get some gurneys in here.”

Keeping a hand on Jim, he grabbed a small scanner from his kit and took a quick reading. His mouth tightened as Jim’s body temperature and heartrate registered on the scanner, the measurements indicating a moderate case of heatstroke. Of greater concerns were Jim’s sodium and potassium levels, which needed immediate attention. His blood glucose was shockingly low. Jim had a high metabolism and easily burned through his reserves on a good day. The numbers told him that Jim was running on fumes. But real food would have to wait. Jim was severely dehydrated and fluid replacement was more critical than food at the moment.

He opened the medical kit and grabbed a hypo, quickly fishing out an ampoule and snapping it in place before injecting it directly into Jim’s carotid artery. The young man didn’t even flinch, his eyes glazed. _Damn it, Jim, this was supposed to be a kiddie run_. He turned to Ria. “How are they?”

“Holding their own. Larson is the worst of the lot. He’s hypokalemic, dehydrated and his body temperature is 38.8.

Larson was lying on the platform, curled on his side, eyes closed. Unconscious or lethargic? “Start him on Ringers and give him 25mgs of Nevarin. Transport him as soon as possible. Get anyone who can’t manage oral fluids or with a body temp over 38 on an IV. Cool fluids, as cold as they can stand. Blood chemistries, including a renal panel on everyone. Page Z’Tar. We’re gonna need some help.”

The sound of someone vomiting off to his right drew his attention away from Jim. Lieutenant Evans was on his knees emptying his stomach onto the deck and moaning.

“Anybody think to hydrate while they were down there?” McCoy growled, reaching for an IV kit. How in the hell had the landing party gotten in such bad shape? Jim barely responded as McCoy steadied his arm.

“I can’t find a useable vein,” Ria announced, holding Larson’s arm. “They’re completely shut down.”

Cursing under his breath, McCoy left Jim and knelt beside Larson. “Drop an NG tube and push a liter of fluid slowly. As soon as the gurney gets here, transport him.” He reached into the medical kit, pulling out a large bore catheter needle. “Davi, set up an IV bag and line.”

He cut the unconscious man’s shirt from hem to neck and exposed his upper chest. He ran a sonic sterilizer over his hands and then did the same for the skin around Larson’s collarbone. In less than a minute, with motions so familiar he didn’t have to think about them, he had the catheter inserted into the subclavian vein and taped into place. Davi attached the IV solution just as the gurney arrived. 

“Run that bag wide open and get a chest scan once he’s in Sickbay,” he ordered. Together, the three of them maneuvered the unconscious man onto the gurney and Davi wheeled him out of the room.

McCoy pointed at Evans. “He’s next. See if you can get a peripheral line in him. Let me know if you can’t.”

Ria nodded. “That was the fastest, slickest central line placement I’ve ever seen.”

“No time to waste. Throw anyone who can stand after they rehydrate into a cool shower. Anyone who can’t, gets cold towels and ice packs.”

McCoy grabbed Jim’s arm again but didn’t even bother to look for an IV site below the wrist. The smaller vasculature would have collapsed by now. He went right to Jim’s antecubital fossa, hoping the median cubital vein would be accessible.

“What’s wrong?” Jim asked, his words slightly slurred. He shivered, wrapping his arms around his chest. “’m cold.”

“You’re dehydrated. You’re going to be all right once we get some fluids and calories in you.” He didn’t add the ‘idiot’ that resounded in his head as he started the line. “I told you to stay hydrated down there.” The kid needed a damn chaperone.

“Drank all my water,” Jim muttered defensively, his eyes closing. “’m fine. Jus’ tired.”

Like hell. Christ, how hot had it _been_ down on the planet?

He’d just connected the IV tubing, running the solution wide open, when the doors slid open.

Four medics entered pushing gurneys. They skidded to a stop, taking in the scene before carefully maneuvering inside. Two of them swallowed hard at the smell.

“What the hell happened?” First Officer Alvarez barked, rushing in behind the medics and standing just inside the room, staring at the carnage.

“Heat exhaustion,” McCoy said. He was kneeling in front of Evans, taking a quick pulse and assessing him for dehydration. He wasn’t critical, and Ria had managed to get an intravenous line started. “Take him to Sickbay now,” McCoy said. “Ria, go with him. Start cooling him down when you get there.”

“Aye, sir. Let’s go,” she ordered the medic.

“Is it bad?” Alvarez asked, side-stepping the medics and vomit that littered the floor.

“Bad enough,” McCoy replied.

Another two nurses had arrived. One went to the female away team member who had pushed herself to her feet but was holding her stomach. She was answering the nurse’s questions, so she was at least alert and able to stand on her own.

“What the hell, Evans,” Alvarez said, keeping a safe distance from the vomiting man. “You were supposed to supervisor this operation for Christ sake. Why did you stay down so long?”

“It hit us fast,” Evans said. “I didn’t realize—” His words were cut off as his stomach convulsed. The medic was quick in getting an emesis bag under the man’s mouth.

“Question him later,” McCoy said. “They need to get to Sickbay for treatment.” He turned to check the others as the medics began to transport. The three remaining crewmen seemed to be less affected, their heatstroke much less severe than that of Larson and Jim and Evans.

McCoy heard one of the medics raise his voice in protest. “You have to go to Sickbay, sir.”

McCoy whipped around and saw Jim fighting to get away from the medic who was trying to get him onto the gurney without hurting him.

“Have to go back.”

“You’re not going anywhere but Sickbay, sir,” the medic snapped and then, apparently abandoning further argument, took a firm hold of Jim’s shirt and jerked him upward, trying to haul him onto the gurney.

Jim’s reaction was sudden and violent. He twisted out of the medic’s grasp with surprising strength, catching him off guard and causing the man to stagger back with a curse as he lost his grip.

McCoy quickly intervened. “Stand down, medic,” he ordered. He crouched beside Jim, placing a gentle hand on the side of his face. Jim never responded well to force. “You have to go to Sickbay, kid. I need to take care of you.”

Jim shivered and shook his head. His blue eyes were dull and unfocused, and McCoy doubted Jim fully understood where he was or what was going on.

“Come on,” McCoy said quietly and gently clasped Jim’s arm. “I’ve got a cool glass of water and a cold cloth with your name on it. You can tell me all about Tycho IV while you drink and get cleaned up.”

“Bones?”

“Yeah, kid, it’s me.” He guided Jim onto the gurney and helped him to lie back.

“Cold.”

“I know. You’ll feel better when we get you to Sickbay.” Once Jim was settled, he nodded to the medic to proceed before turning his attention to the remaining members of the team. “How are they?” he asked.

“Ensigns Taavi, Xen and Park are overheated and dehydrated. They require monitoring and fluids, a cool shower and rest.”

McCoy nodded, watching as the medics loaded Xen and Park onto the last two gurneys. Taavi protested that she could walk, and Commander Alvarez offered to make sure she arrived safely in Sickbay. It appeared things were in hand and there was nothing more for him to do here. “I’ll see you in Sickbay, Ensign Taavi.”

He fumed as he rushed down the corridor, his mind bouncing between the treatments that needed to be performed and questions about what the hell had happened down there. Jim was a fucking cadet for Christ’s sake. Alvarez was right. Even if Jim had lost track of how quickly his team was debilitating, Evans was there to prevent exactly this type of situation from occurring. He didn’t expect Jim to be reasonable, but Evans was a seasoned officer. He should have been immune to Jim’s wheedling or stubbornness.

But it hadn’t been just Jim in bad shape. How the hell had things gone to shit so quickly without anyone noticing?

Moments later he strode through the Sickbay doors. Larson and Jim had been settled into beds with a team of medical personnel surrounding them. Evans had his own coterie of medical staff, two of which were currently stripping him of his clothing. Three more beds were prepared and waiting.

McCoy stood between Jim’s bed and Larson’s, studying all the monitors in turn. The cooling system on all of the beds had been engaged and everyone’s vitals were fairly stable. The med staff was busy but none of them looked overwhelmed. Reassured, McCoy moved his gaze from the monitors to his more critical patients.

Jim’s uniform had already been removed and he was lying flat, shivering, with only a towel over his groin. A tired-looking nurse was starting another line on Jim. The kid was staring at the ceiling, a distant look in his eyes.

Davi had started another line on Larson with a chilled IV solution and was busy placing cold, wet towels over him. The man was unconscious, and his heart was showing some stress, but there was nothing critical at the moment, although the man’s face was red with sunburn.

“Davi, when you finish that, run a regen unit on his face and neck. And let me know when his lab results are back.”

He turned at the sound of vomiting. Ria was holding an emesis bag for Evans as he retched. “Administer 5mg of Palestnol for his nausea and push fluids. Chill the IV lines and start cooling him off. That should help his nausea. I need his chart as soon as you finish, Ria. Davi, I want Larson’s, as well.” McCoy didn’t know Evans or Larson, and he hadn’t done their pre-mission physicals, so he wasn’t sure if either of them had any history of cardiac issues that he needed to be concerned about. “And Kirk, Evans and Larson need a urinary catheter placed. Monitor I/O and let me know if they don’t start producing urine right away. Anything under 30cc an hour, I want to know immediately.”

He shifted over to Jim, looking up at the monitor. The kid’s medical history was more familiar than his own.

Jim’s blood pressure and blood potassium were low. “Hang another unit of chilled Ringers and push 50mg of dextrose. Get another set of labs. I want to be sure the LR and fluids bring his blood chemistry back into normal range. When he’s a little more with it, start him on a protein shake. Chocolate’s his favorite.”

Another nurse brought a basin with cold water and a thick sponge and immediately began to bathe Jim. “You want ice packs?” she asked McCoy.

McCoy glanced at the monitor. Temp 39.2. And that was after fluids had been started and his clothing removed. What the hell had his temperature been in the transporter room?

“Yeah,” he said. “Keep him cold and wet until his temp is below 38. Same for Larson and Evans.”

He had Larson’s chart in his hand and was reviewing it when the other two gurneys arrived, with Taavi following slowly behind.

Z’Tar swept into Sickbay in their wake, his scrubs wrinkled and his hair uncombed. McCoy raised an eyebrow.

“I was napping,” he said defensively, “since I’m on Gamma tonight. What happened? Where’s Dr. Stewart?” Z’Tar asked, looking around, his dark eyes alarmed.

“The entire away team is suffering from heatstroke and exhaustion,” McCoy said in a clipped tone. “I’ve got Kirk and Larson. You take Evans and get him stabilized. Ria will help you. Consult me if you have questions. The other three are stable and just need monitoring.” He handed Larson’s chart off to Davi and accepted Jim’s chart from the tired-faced nurse caring for him. “And Dr. Stewart is in his quarters. He worked the last half of Gamma and the first half of Alpha. He needs his sleep more than you do, since he’s taking Beta shift. If you get your ass in gear, it shouldn’t take us long to get everyone settled, and then you can go back to your bunk,” he drawled sarcastically. Ignoring Z’Tar’s shocked look, he walked to Jim’s bed. He was a resident, for Christ’s sake. He should know crises didn’t give a good goddamn about personal schedules.

Surprisingly, Jim was lying quietly beneath the cold towels, despite the shivers racking his body. His glazed eyes moved from face to face, before settling on McCoy. He looked bewildered and confused and exhausted. “’hat’s wrong? Did I have an ‘llergic re’ction? Cold, Bones. J’ll f’sh made me cold.”

“No, Jim. Not an allergic reaction. You’ve got heatstroke. We’re trying to cool you down. You’ll feel better once we get you rehydrated and your body temperature drops closer to normal.” He stroked Jim’s forehead, the edge of the wet towel wrapping the kid’s head chilly against his fingers. “You’ll be able to think more clearly, too.”

With a heavy sigh, Jim’s eyes slid shut.

The three remaining members of the away team were getting settled into beds, their assigned nurses working efficiently to begin hydration therapy. The sound of vomiting punctuated the hum of the engines and the beep of the monitors, and he looked over at Ria. She caught his eye and shrugged, looking resigned as she helped Evans wipe his mouth.

So much for a quiet evening.

* * *

The bourbon went down smoothly. McCoy savored the fiery burn on his tongue as he sipped, the dark gold liquid warming his throat and chest. He’d only had room to pack one bottle – flouting regulations – into the minimal personal belongings he’d been allowed before he boarded. He’d been rationing it in order to make sure it lasted the tour – twenty days to go and counting. This was only his second glass in the nine days he’d been on the ship, which had to be some kind of record for him. But, by God, he needed it tonight.

He hadn’t gotten out of Sickbay yesterday until after 22:00. Even with Stewart’s help, Larson had taken a while to stabilize. Jim, too, for that matter, and they’d both occupied biobeds long after the others had been discharged to their quarters. The only silver lining to the entire debacle had been Stewart’s look of approval when he had arrived in Sickbay for his shift. The older doctor had listened attentively, and then promptly booted Z’Tar off-duty. When he’d tried to do the same to him, McCoy had stubbornly held his ground and refused to leave, citing his prior knowledge of Kirk’s medical history as the basis for remaining until Jim was more stable.

Jim’s body had been stubbornly uncooperative as usual, and what should have been straightforward treatment for mild heatstroke had turned into something more complicated. Long hours had dragged by until, finally, Jim’s body temp and lab values had returned to normal levels. Tucked under two blankets after finishing a protein shake, the kid had fallen into an exhausted sleep, dark shadows visible under his eyes.

As exhausted as he was after leaving Sickbay, McCoy should have fallen asleep immediately, but instead lay awake with his mind spinning, worried about his friend. The conscious members of the landing party were talking amongst themselves of how Jim had kept them longer than necessary in the debilitating heat, looking for a creature that didn’t exist. Words like ‘mirage’ and ‘over-active imagination’ began to paint a worrisome picture of an over-zealous young cadet on his first landing party.

Glass in hand, McCoy closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall at the head of his bed. He had never imagined he’d miss the cramped space of his dorm room. His quarters felt claustrophobic, but the alternative was the rec room, which was always bustling with activity or the observation deck with its unrestricted view of space, a view that made him nauseated. Of course, it was Jim’s favorite place. They’d already spent several evenings standing at the wide expanse of windows, McCoy a safe distance away, relaxing in the soft seating and Jim pressed up next to the glass as if he wanted to become part of the star scape outside. Honestly, McCoy doubted Jim even noticed his absence when the hour grew late and McCoy sought his bed, and he suspected that was where Jim spent time when the kid couldn’t sleep. He hoped Jim was sleeping now, but was too exhausted to get up and check. He’d released Jim hours earlier with orders to go to his quarters and rest until he had to go back on duty tomorrow. Jim hadn’t exactly been a cooperative patient – not that he expected anything else.

_When McCoy entered Sickbay after a quick breakfast in the mess hall, a cup of the sludge the Farragut replicators called coffee in his hand, the unit was still busy but quite a bit calmer. God, he missed Earth. At least the replicators at the Academy dispensed something closer to actual brewed coffee, and when he felt like a treat, he could always go to that little place on Market that had real coffee made from freshly roasted beans._

_Davi was sitting at the circulation desk, monitoring Larson’s vitals while he slept. Caitians needed far less sleep than humans, so he looked bright-eyed and bushy-tailed – no pun intended - even after working around the clock. Ria was at Evans’ bedside, chatting while he ate, a significant improvement from the last time he’d seen the man. Another nurse was hanging a new bag of fluids on a sleeping Jim. Raised voices snagged his attention, and he was surprised to see Alvarez at the far end of the bay, talking to Xen, Taavi and Park, who were awaiting a final check before being discharged to their duties. Nobody was looking very happy._

_Crap. He nodded to Davi who gave him a droll, ‘shit’s about to hit the fan’ look._

_“We have a visitor,” McCoy observed._

_“He’s been here for the past hour.”_

_McCoy scowled as he eyed Alvarez. “How are those three?”_

_“Well hydrated, blood chemistries normal, no nausea. Was going to see how breakfast went, and then discharge them without restrictions if there weren’t any surprises.”_

_McCoy nodded and turned his attention to the two beds where Larson and Jim lay sleeping._

_“Z’Tar told Ria to discharge Evans after lunch, if he doesn’t have any setbacks with his meals. Larson slept through the night. His blood values look good. EKG shows no signs of stress or damage.” Davi handed McCoy two charts. “Kirk was in and out. Restless. His glucose is still low. We tried to get him to drink a protein shake a few times, but it was slow going.”_

_McCoy looked up from the chart._

_Davi shrugged off his questioning look. “We got a few sips in but he was really only interested in leaving.”_

_“I’ll bet.” He reviewed both charts and seeing that both his patients were still asleep, redirected his movements toward Alvarez and his impromptu meeting in his Sickbay._

_Several hours later – after a lengthy conversation with Alvarez and Evans – when Jim and Larson were finally awake and alert, he was able to conduct a thorough examination on both of them and write release orders. Larson was somber, while Jim was belligerent._

_“I don’t need to stay, Bones. You’re over-reacting. I’m fine.” Jim, propped up on pillows, was still pale, but he had a determined and stubborn expression fixed on his face._

_“You’ll be fine when you eat a full meal and your blood work returns to normal. Until then, you’ll stay in that bed and rest.”_

_“I have to prepare my report.”_

_McCoy sighed. He had refused Alvarez any access to Larson and Jim, but he knew what was coming from the questions Alvarez had posed, and Jim wasn’t going to like it. “If you finish your lunch –_ all _of your lunch – I’ll give you a PADD to do your report.”_

_“I have to report my findings to the Captain. In person.”_

_“Best offer you’re going to get today, Jim.”_

McCoy took another sip of his bourbon, feeling the thrum of the ship against his back. It didn’t comfort him. Unlike Jim, he preferred the safety and stability of Earth where they had long since eradicated earthquakes and hurricanes.

The door chime sounded.

He opened his eyes and stared at the featureless ceiling. He knew who was at the door at this hour, and he had a gnawing feeling of why tying his stomach in apprehensive knots. He downed the rest of his bourbon in a single shot and set the glass aside, rolling off the bed to his feet. The chime sounded one more time before he got to the door. He pressed the release with a reluctant hand. The door slid open to reveal Jim, dressed in working blacks, and practically vibrating in place with impatience.

“What took you so long?” Jim huffed with a frown and stalked past McCoy before he could respond.

“Please. Come on in.” McCoy drawled sarcastically. He let the door slide shut and turned to face Jim who had come to a standstill with his back to McCoy just at the edge of the bed. McCoy had been quick to note the slight limp in Jim’s gait and the way Jim was favoring his left leg, keeping most of his weight on his right leg as he stood. The spasms in the tender muscle had returned with a vengeance due to dehydration and low potassium, which was one of the reasons McCoy had ordered Jim on bedrest. Idiot. Jim seemed determined to push his leg beyond what it could handle. But the leg wasn’t the only issue drawing McCoy’s attention. Jim’s shoulders were tense, his back ram-rod straight. His hands were curled into tight fists. “What’s wrong, kid?”

Jim spun around, his expression a mixture of anger and anguish. “I’m grounded.”

Shit. He’d had a feeling this was coming. He’d been questioned by both Alvarez and Garrovick on Jim’s state of mind and whether heatstroke caused hallucinations or impaired judgement. He’d heard enough of the landing party’s chatter to know that they had overstayed their time on the planet, looking for a life-form no one thought existed. “Hell, I’m sorry, Jim.”

“They’re making a mistake,” Jim said. His tone was confrontational and arrogant. “Something’s down there, Bones. I saw it.” He shuddered and rubbed his arms, wrinkling his uniform sleeves. “Something… not right.”

McCoy sighed. It wasn’t the first time Jim had made this claim and he could see from the set expression in Jim’s eyes that the younger man had been chewing on this for a while. He took a few steps towards Jim, keeping his posture relaxed. When he spoke, his tone was gentle. “Jim, you were suffering from heatstroke. You can’t be sure of what you saw.”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he said easily, leaning his hip against the small desk and deliberately maintaining the distance between them, allowing Jim as much space as possible in the small room. “Tell me about it.”

Jim spent the next forty-five minutes detailing not only what he saw, but his theories on what it was and why they should return to the planet to investigate further. He spoke with authority and intensity and McCoy was reminded once again of Jim’s brilliance and intuition, traits that gave him an edge when dealing with others and kept him at the top of his class, academically. But this time….

“It sounds like a low cloud,” McCoy said. “Tycho IV is hot and humid. Atmospheric vapor wouldn’t be unexpected. How do you know it wasn’t that?”

Jim hesitated. His fingers twitched nervously, a habit McCoy had observed in Jim when he was uncertain. He seemed to wrestle with something internally before he tightened his jaw and turned away.

“You’re not sure, are you?” McCoy asked gently.

“Something’s down there,” Jim said with authority. “I can feel it. I knew it the minute we materialized in the middle of that jungle. It was too quiet, unnaturally so. Even when we moved away from the smell, things didn’t feel right.”

“Smell?”

Jim froze for a moment as if realizing he’d revealed something he hadn’t intended. “Heat and humidity create a lot of decomposition. The air was pretty rank, but that’s not important. The point is something’s down there.”

“You’re not completely sure of that, though,” McCoy insisted, eyeing him skeptically. “Jim, your orders were to assess the planet and take samples. The probes verified that the planet is uninhabited. Based on our conversation in Sickbay, it seems to me that you were already expecting to discover something the probes had missed before you even went down there. You were primed to see things that didn’t exist.”

Jim, a scowl twisting his features, waved away his words impatiently. “Thanks for being on my side.”

“Jim,” McCoy began, before he was cut off.

“They’re fucking grounding me, Bones! I’m being assigned to Engineering because no one believes me. Because—”

_\--you didn’t believe me._

The unspoken words hung clearly between them. It was a silent slap but a slap, nonetheless.

McCoy tried to smooth over the situation, his chest tight. “You like Engineering.” Jim had excelled in all his engineering classes, taking classes meant for fourth year cadets. And acing them.

“That’s not the point.” All the fight seemed to drain out of him. His shoulders slumped. “I can’t make anyone understand. There’s _something_ down there, Bones.”

McCoy eyed him critically and chose his next words carefully. “Maybe it was something else, Jim.”

Jim scowled, his gaze wary. “What do you mean?”

“When you were feverish in Sickbay, you were mumbling about rotting plants and needing to get away. You claimed you were being hunted.”

Jim paled, and his expression slid smoothly into an indecipherable mask. “I don’t remember that.”

 _Damn it to hell_ , McCoy thought, realizing he’d unintentionally struck a nerve. He studied his friend, reminding himself to proceed cautiously. He knew Jim well enough to see the signs of distrust – retreat and subterfuge. Jim still fiercely guarded his private life and his past and McCoy knew he was treading into chancy territory, uninvited. “Smell is a powerful trigger of memories. Scents bypass the thalamus and go straight to the olfactory bulbs, which is why certain odors can immediately trigger a detailed memory.” He paused. “Or intense emotions.”

Jim’s blue eyes were shuttered. Expressionless. “What’s your point, Bones?”

“Is it possible you smelled something down there that triggered an unpleasant memory? If you did, it could have easily caused you to enter a state of hypervigilance. And if your mind was overwhelmed in recalling a memory, it could have distorted what you were processing in real-time, stimulating your imagination.”

“I didn’t imagine this,” he said coolly and walked past McCoy toward the door.

“Jim…” McCoy knew that dismissive expression. He’d just never had it aimed at him.

Jim didn’t look at him, didn’t even pause as he strode past.

“Jim, wait. Please.”

The door opened with a quiet hiss. “I’ll see you around.” And shut behind him, leaving the air in the room vibrating with bitter failure.

“Fuck,” McCoy said and poured himself a second glass of bourbon.


	3. Chapter 3

Jim lay on the narrow bed in his assigned quarters, staring up at the ceiling. He’d lowered the lights and the dimness suited his mood. Down here, on the lower decks, there were no portholes with a view of the stars. There was no sense of time passing in the windowless room. It reminded him of his stints in juvenile detention… except for the silence and the quiet hum of the engines that reassured him he was light-years away from that life. Well, maybe not all that far away, given that he was grounded and distrusted by the people in authority.

For once, he was alone. Two of his roommates were on duty and the third spent every free minute in the rec room and only stumbled in to crash on the bed when he needed to sleep. They’d barely spoken two words to one another in the past ten days beyond ‘Excuse me’, ‘Sorry for the noise’ and ‘Watch it!’ as they slid around each other in the cramped space. Jim was officially off duty for another – he looked at the chronometer – twelve hours. He’d been ordered to report to Master Petty Officer Ackers at 0600 tomorrow.

Engineering.

His mother had started her career in engineering as a Petty Officer. He remembered her telling him stories of her time on the _USS Archer_ when he was kid, on those rare occasions when she was on leave in Iowa, before he’d realized she’d chosen Starfleet over him and Sam. She’d come home less and less over the years, and when she did eventually make a trip back to the farmhouse in Riverside, he was so angry with her he’d refused to listen to her stories, even the ones about his father. He wondered what his mother would say if he told her he was now assigned to Engineering. She hadn’t been too happy he’d joined Starfleet and even less pleased that he’d chosen command.

Fuck.

He rolled out of bed in one smooth, quick move, wincing at the tight pull of his left thigh muscle, a stinging warning to slow down or risk a cramp. He didn’t want to think about his mother but there was precious little to distract him in the small room. The non-com quarters weren’t designed for comfort, but function – a place to get a clean uniform and a few hours of sleep. With four bunks, the space was too small and cramped to properly pace, but he couldn’t lie quietly any longer, his chaotic thoughts churning between the past and his uncertain future. McCoy had him off duty until 0600 tomorrow, but yesterday, after he’d been discharged from Sickbay and debriefed, Alvarez had confined him to quarters.

_“Get some rest, Kirk,” Alvarez said, his smile thin and perfunctory. “You’ve earned it.”_

It was bullshit. Confined to his quarters and buried in Engineering… it had the feel of a well-designed smokescreen, a way to occupy Jim where he couldn’t get into trouble and yet had the appearance of still being valuable work. The other five cadets that had been chosen from the Academy had, like him, all been temporarily assigned as lieutenants while onboard in various departments that matched both their areas of interest and Starfleet track. He was in Command. Not fucking Engineering. Garrovick had hand-picked him for this tour based on his skills and aptitude, and the captain knew Jim was command material.

 _“I have to say, I’m impressed, Mr. Kirk.” Garrovick leaned forward in the tiny office carved out of the space that comprised the captain’s quarters. Miniscule, Jim noted, compared to the captain’s quarters on the_ Enterprise _. But everything was more spacious on that ship since it was being designed for long-deploy missions. “You’ve achieved an outstanding record in very little time.”_

_The older man, Jim knew from his research, was in his fifties. He had a lined but youthful face under dark hair laced with a healthy amount of gray – and an air of being well-seasoned both professionally and personally. He had a charismatic personality but seemed less shrewd than Pike. More paternal and regulatory, a by-the-book kind of guy. The crew respected and liked him._

_“Thank you, sir.” Garrovick’s desk was between them and Jim tried to keep his gaze front and center, but his peripheral vision had taken in the entirety of the captain’s quarters in the blink of an eye. He had instantly noted the personal items collected in the man’s twenty-year career and displayed for visitors to admire._

_“And you’ve chosen command, I see.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_Garrovick nodded approvingly. “Captain Pike tells me you’re a natural, that you have some of the highest aptitude scores he’s seen in a cadet. He called you a tactical genius.”_

_Jim felt his face grow hot._

_“But undisciplined, if your record is any indication,” Garrovick added, fixing him with an unblinking stare as if to challenge Pike’s assessment._

_Jim was determined not to squirm under the man’s scrutiny. Firming his jaw, he met the man’s gaze without flinching._

_“I’m old school,” Garrovick said. “Starfleet is built on regulations and discipline. Adhering to structure and order allows us to survive out here in the black.”_

_“Captain Pike feels the instinct to leap without looking is a skill Starfleet has lost,” Jim countered. “He recruited me based on those qualities.”_

_Garrovick smiled. It was the kind of smile Jim had seen on adults his entire life – tolerant, slightly condescending, with an air of superiority. “Chris and I don’t always agree on methods, but I respect his opinion. I’m assigning you to the bridge, Mr. Kirk. You’ll be working with Commander Alvarez, my First Officer.”_

Ten days in and he’s marked as a high risk and demoted to Engineering, which is where they put anybody they didn’t want under their noses. Meanwhile, he’d heard that Garrovick had ordered another team down to the planet today, more than sixteen hundred kilometers from where Jim’s team had materialized.

It was a mistake. Jim could feel it. He didn’t know what it was, but there was _something_ down there, something that raised all the hairs on the back of his neck. He should be on the bridge, monitoring the away team’s progress along with Alvarez, not confined to quarters. Damn it, he’d worked his ass off to get here and prove he was command material. Not to spend time in fucking Engineering.

The door chime sounded, and he grimaced. Fuck, couldn’t he stew in privacy? Reluctantly, he crossed the short distance to the door and opened it. He was not surprised to see McCoy standing in the corridor, holding two trays.

He hadn’t seen or spoken to the man since their argument yesterday evening. He had risked a reprimand for leaving his quarters against orders and, in the end, the visit had been a complete waste of time. McCoy’s doubts had been surprisingly hurtful, and just remembering them caused his chest to hurt.

“Thought you might like some company for dinner,” McCoy said, his hazel eyes sharp and assessing. Jim could see he was still playing doctor, which was annoying. He was fine. He didn’t need McCoy hovering, whether as a doctor or a friend. Neither role was welcome at the moment.

Even though it was covered, the faint smell of eggs wafted from the tray, making him queasy. He hadn’t eaten the lunch that had been couriered down to his quarters. He suspected McCoy had been notified and that was the real reason he was now hand-delivering dinner. “You thought wrong. I don’t want company.”

“Okay. We can eat in silence.”

“I’m not hungry.”

McCoy didn’t budge, but his mouth tightened. “That wasn’t an offer, Jim. It was a request.”

Jim continued to block the door, quickly assessing how far the doctor was going to take this. McCoy didn’t bluff, but he was a clever bastard when he wanted something, and the good doctor knew, better than most, how to get beneath his defenses.

Jim had a thing about food and McCoy had a thing about Jim eating. Was that all this was about or did McCoy want to continue the conversation from last night? Check Jim’s mental status? And if he did, was it as a friend or a doctor? How much of what McCoy observed would end up in his record?

 _Fuck it_. He didn’t need anyone. Hadn’t he learned the hard way that the only person you could trust was yourself? If McCoy wanted to waste his time trying to force him to eat, that was his choice. Jim knew how to play that game. Without a word, he abandoned the doorway, turning back into the dimly lit cabin. McCoy, as predicated, followed.

“It’s like a goddamn sarcophagus in here,” McCoy said. “Lights, eighty percent.”

Jim scowled and blinked against the sudden glare of light as McCoy set the trays on one of the empty bunks and surveyed the room with a scowl.

“Glad to see you’re resting.”

“I have a headache,” Jim said coldly. “Besides, I’ve got nothing else to do but rest. You won’t release me for duty and Alvarez has confined me to quarters.”

“Jim, you’re under medical restrictions for a valid reason. Don’t be so goddamn dramatic.” He sat on the edge of a bunk and uncovered the trays. “You’re back on duty in twelve hours.”

The smell of food overwhelmed the confined space and Jim felt his stomach flip as his gut roiled. Jim turned swiftly and moved to the end of the narrow aisle dividing the room, trying to escape the nauseating smell. “My roommates aren’t going to appreciate the stale odor of food in here when they return. And DeMarco won’t be happy you’re using his bed without his permission. What are you doing here, Bones?” he asked, staring at the bulkhead.

“Isn’t it obvious, genius? Sit down and eat. Some food will help your headache.”

It took him a long moment and several deep breaths before he turned around. McCoy was studying him intensely.

“You look like shit, kid.”

“Thanks,” he said, his voice wooden.

“I mean it, Jim. I’d say you look about ready to lose your lunch, but I know you didn’t eat one. You still nauseated?”

“I’m fine.”

His expression skeptical, McCoy staring unblinking at him until Jim looked away and offered up the only explanation he could think of in the moment. “I haven’t been doing much to work up an appetite. Unless you count resting and thinking about how fucked my career is now.”

McCoy’s eyes narrowed and for a long moment he said nothing. Finally, he said, “I’ll give you something for the nausea, if you’ll take it, but you gotta eat, Jim. You had heatstroke and your body needs real nourishment to fully recuperate. Is the headache recent or have you had it all along?”

Jim shrugged and ran a hand through his hair, fighting the urge to flee, to find someplace to run, until he burned out the restlessness crawling under his skin. With Bones in the cabin, there was no room to even pace without crawling over the man. McCoy probably knew that, too.

“Uh-huh,” McCoy said knowingly. Then his expression lightened. “C’mon, kid. Sit. You’ll feel better once you eat.”

Jim straightened his shoulders and fixed McCoy with a hard look. “Is that an order from my doctor or advice from a friend?”

McCoy winced. “I can’t stop being a doctor, Jim, but to answer your question, I’m here as a friend.”

It was a shitty thing for Jim to ask and he knew it, but he had to know if this was an official visit. He didn’t need any more negative evaluations placed in his duty file. And McCoy had the ability to make his situation worse than it already was.

Jim might be confined to quarters, but thanks to his bunkmates, he knew that rumors were still circulating that he had ‘hallucinated a phantom creature’ while on the planet and put everyone on the away team in danger chasing after something that didn’t exist.

He hadn’t tried to refute any of the gossip. That was a lost cause at this point and would only make him look even more obsessed. Bones was like a hound on the scent once he got it into his head that something was wrong and needed fixing. Bringing dinner was a case in point. If McCoy suspected that Jim was still clinging to his belief that something ominous was lurking on the planet, he’d probably insist that Jim get counseling. And _that_ was not an option.

“Come on,” McCoy said gently, lifting the tray of food. “Tell me about Engineering. What’s your assignment?”

Jim sighed, eyeing the food with distaste. The sooner he gave McCoy a little of what he wanted, the sooner the man would leave. He sat down on the edge of his bed across from McCoy, their knees nearly touching. “Damage Control and Environmental Systems.”

McCoy handed him the tray of food and frowned. “Damage Control. Is that dangerous?”

Jim accepted the tray and swallowed hard before picking up a fork and making a half-hearted stab at the pile of scrambled eggs. “Relax, Bones. It’s not like I’m going to be crawling around the catwalks putting out fires.” He took a small amount of eggs and, once the curds were in his mouth, swallowed without chewing, avoiding the feel of them on his tongue. “Farragut’s in a stable orbit around the planet. We’re not under impulse or warp power. Nothing’s going to happen. The Environmental Systems are on the lowest decks of Engineering, away from the warp core. Besides, I’ll be lucky if they let me touch anything after what happened on Tycho IV. I’ll be the plebe who does the scut work. Or just gets to observe.”

McCoy dug into his own food, expertly balancing his tray on one knee as he ate. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, there’s even less going on in the med bay. The heatstroke treatments were an aberration. Stewart spent the day in his office and Z’Tar keeps looking for patients.” He shook his head. “I swear he’s going to hurt someone, just so he can go to the OR.”

Jim allowed a little smile to appear. It was good to talk to Bones like he was used to doing – like two cadets trying to make it through the Academy. Even though Bones outranked him, it didn’t normally affect their friendship. They still hit their favorite bar for beer and pizza on most Saturday nights and bitched about their cohorts. Three beers in and Bones would bore Jim by detailing how Starfleet General’s Trauma Response Team should be organized and run, and Jim would bore Bones with the fundamentals of quantum warp physics or his latest moves in hand-to-hand. When their conversation wound down, they blew off steam shooting pool. Bones played a mean game of pool. Nothing rattled him, and his hands were always steady on the cue.

He listened to his friend gripe about the poorly managed inventory system and the idiotic protocol for responding to shipboard emergencies. Whatever Bones was ranting about, it wasn’t enough to distract him from the worries swirling in his head and churning in his gut. He forced another forkful of eggs into his mouth, swallowing hurriedly as the taste nearly made him gag.

He pushed his fork through the remaining food on his plate, placing smaller and smaller amounts on his fork, going through the motions of eating, pretending to chew and swallow. Humming a response in all the right places, he kept the doctor’s attention off his plate and on his monologue. Adopting an interested expression, he listened with half an ear as Bones told him all about the politics of the medical bay.

In a moment, he would excuse himself to use the bathroom and toss the eggs filling his napkin into the recycler.

Vomiting would have to wait until Bones left. He couldn’t afford to fuck up again in front of someone on this trip.

* * *

Jim stood at attention just outside the main engineering station, waiting for Master Petty Officer Ackers to finish the animated conversation he was having with a technician. The hum of the engines was louder than he remembered from his orientation tour two weeks earlier, but it did nothing to drown out Ackers booming voice. Jim remained focused on the wall at the far end of the space and tried to tune out the ass whipping the technician was getting. Years of self-preservation had taught him to mind his own business in these situations, to keep your eyes front and center and your opinions to yourself. Something he’d had trouble with lately. But he didn’t dare screw up this assignment, so he clamped his jaw shut and remained at attention as he’d been taught.

“Are you some kind of a fucking moron?” Ackers bellowed at the technician. “Or are you trying to blow up the goddamn ship?”

Jim couldn’t hear the tech’s response, but he suspected Ackers wasn’t looking for an answer anyway. Based on past experience, he’d say Ackers was more interested in giving the man a caustic dressing down to get his point across than discovering the real reasons behind the tech’s actions.

_Fantastic, my first day on duty and Ackers is already pissed._

Ackers spun away from the flushed technician, who immediately headed in the opposite direction, and turned a hard eye to Jim. “What do you want?”

“Cadet James Kirk, reporting as ordered, sir.”

Glaring menacingly, Ackers stalked to within an arm’s length of where Jim was standing.

“Jesus fucking Christ, what are they doing, sending me babies now?” Ackers was a broad-chested man who matched Jim’s height but managed to appear taller due to his bulk. Hard gray eyes raked him from head to toe, and he sized Jim up in less than ten seconds, his fleshy face still red with temper. Putting his fists on his hips and straightening to his full height, he asked, “What’d you do to piss off Alvarez?”

Jim kept his eyes front and center. “Sir?”

“You’re in command colors and assigned to engineering, Kirk. Do I look like an ignorant fucking plebe?”

“No, sir.”

Ackers continued his assessment. “This ain’t no classroom, Kirk, or a place to watch the goddamn stars go by. We work down here.”

“Yes, sir.”

A lieutenant joined them and handed Ackers a data pad, casting a brief glance at Jim.

Ackers took the pad and scanned it. “Damage Control and Environmental Systems?” he read. “Just fucking great. Does command really think that he can’t kill someone by fucking up ES?” He handed the pad back to the lieutenant. “Glad he’s all yours, sir. I’ve already dealt with my quota of stupidity today. My advice? Don’t let him get hot. I hear he overheats easily.”

Jim grimaced at the reference. Did everyone on the fucking ship know about the landing party’s troubles?

Ackers nodded, his jaw set, and stormed off, his voice booming orders as technicians scurried out of his way.

The lieutenant smiled at him. “I’m Lieutenant Halverson. I run MEC. Don’t mind Ackers. His bark is usually worse than his bite, but I’d try to stay out of his path until he cools down. He doesn’t have much patience for green cadets.”

“Yes, sir.” Jim remained at attention.

“At ease, Kirk. I’ve read your record, and you demonstrate a real aptitude for engineering. Not only that, you made it aboard the _Farragut_ in your second year at the Academy, which is an impressive accomplishment. Whatever kerfuffle got you sent down here, don’t sweat it. Command is fickle. With Alvarez you’re a superstar one day and on his shit-list the next. Don’t worry; your troubles will soon blow over, and in the meantime, you might learn something useful. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the team on duty in Main Engineering Controls.”

They made their way through a maze of aisles and dropped down two more decks through the Jefferies tubes into a smaller area where four crewman were stationed. This was the very bowels of the ship, far away from the rarified air of the bridge and light-years away from Tycho IV.

“This is Jim Kirk,” Halverson announced to the team without ceremony and reviewed his data pad after tapping a few keys. “Okay, everyone, we’ve got a full agenda today. There was a Main Switch alarm last night in section four. This is the fifth one in the three weeks. Tarek and Aziz, run a full a diagnostic on the entire section. We need to find out why that keeps happening. I want an explanation for the alarms before the end of shift. Penn and KC, the filtration system above Deck Six has multiple yellow alerts. I thought you fixed those.”

“We did. They were green at the end of beta,” Penn said.

“Well, they’re yellow now. Before Medical starts filling up my inbox with complaints, and lecturing me about compromising respiratory systems, get them back in the green and make sure they stay there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Kirk, you’ll be working with Tarek and Aziz. Alright, everyone, you have your orders. Let’s get after it. Dismissed.” Halverson tucked the PADD beneath his arm and walked away, back along the aisle they had just exited.

Penn and KC gave Jim an awkward glance before moving on, leaving Jim alone with Tarek and Aziz. Jim remained stoically silent as the two crewmen regarded him with a mixture of amusement and speculation. They were older than he was, but not by much more than a handful of years. They both had the slight builds ideal for clambering around in tight spaces, and their pale complexions suggested they hadn’t had time off the ship in months.

“What’d you do to piss off Alvarez?” Tarek finally asked. He had pronounced cheek bones and his light brown hair, despite the regulation cut, stuck up at attention on the top of his head, as if he were constantly running his fingers through it.

“You haven’t heard?” Jim asked.

Aziz smiled, showing the gap between his top front teeth. “We don’t get out much.”

Jim shrugged one shoulder. “Landing party mishap while exploring.”

Aziz frowned. “That’s why I’m glad to be in engineering. No traipsing around on strange planets. Plenty to take care of right here, without going to look for trouble.”

“Yeah, and it’s going to be _our_ asses in trouble, if we don’t hustle,” Tarek said, skillfully changing the conversation. “You know anything about engineering?”

“I worked at the Riverside Shipyard before enlisting at the Academy.”

“Enterprise?”

Jim nodded.

Aziz whistled. “She’s a beaut I hear.”

“Enough chit-chat, Dev,” Tarek said. “We need to get to work. A full diagnostic will take most of the day.”

And it did. Jim spent most of the day crawling up and down the cramped Jefferies tubes, glad for the opportunity to do something, despite the dull ache it had awoken in his left thigh. Early in the afternoon, he limped back to the main console area with the latest results.

“Your leg okay, Kirk?” Tarek asked.

“Fine. Just a cramp, nothing to worry about.” He handed Tarek his PADD. “This is the data from the final node junction.”

Tarek nodded. “Good work, Kirk. We’ll upload this to the main diagnostic program. We can grab something to eat while it’s running.”

“I can do the upload,” Jim said. “You go eat. That way, if something flags, I can take care of it right away and we won’t lose any time.” He forced a grin. “Lieutenant Halvorsen will get the report he requested right on time.”

Tarek hesitated. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m not hungry. Go.”

They grinned and, with a friendly wave, left for the mess. Jim sat at the bulky console, absently rubbing his sore leg and sorting through the data. By the time the two men returned, Jim had discovered the issue with the alarms. He projected the relevant schematics on the large screen above the console.

Tarek studied the schematics. “The alarms were false.”

Jim nodded. “The relay interface is more complicated than it needs to be.” He pointed to the network of circuits. “If we reconfigure the panel, bypass the secondary system at this juncture and reconnect it to the primary system here, we’ll use less energy and eliminate the false alarms.”

It took them another three minutes of studying the schematics before Jim saw the first glimmer of approval.

Aziz grinned. “That’s pretty fucking brilliant, kid.”

“It’s Jim.” Only Bones was allowed to call him kid.

“Okay, Jim,” Tarek said. “How do we reconfigure the console to accommodate the changes?”

It took Jim thirty minutes to draft a 3-dimensional design on a data pad and project it. Tarek and Aziz carefully reviewed it, their enthusiasm growing as they slowly traced the new pattern of circuits.

“This is really good,” Tarek said with a frown. “How did you figure out something this brilliant so fast?”

“I told you, I worked at Riverside.”

Tarek wasn’t quite convinced, Jim could see, but he didn’t pursue it, apparently more interested in meeting Halvorson’s deadline than grilling Jim. “So, where do we start?”

Jim grinned and jerked his head to the left. “Under there.”

They all looked at the long series of faceplates that covered the line of upper control panels.

Aziz moaned. “We got to crawl under there?”

The panels were tightly packed, built side by side and less than a meter off the deck.

“Could be worse,” Jim said, sliding off the stool, stretching the stiffness from his leg as he stood.

“How’s that?” Tarek asked, eyeing the panels with a resigned grimace.

“We could be making the changes using the Jefferies tubes accesses.” Which would mean crawling through the adjacent tubes and pulling and rewiring circuits, all while maintaining balance in the narrow, cramped space while the static from the charged field created by the packed power lines raised hairs and ruffled nerves.

They nodded in glum agreement.

“I’ll take the center,” Jim said.

“Wait,” Tarek said. “How are we supposed to see the schematics on the screen while we work? There’s barely any room to move under there.”

Jim had memorized the schematics and didn’t need the control screen as a reference guide. “I’ll call it out as we move. If you let me know where you are, I can tell you the next steps.”

They looked skeptical.

“That’s a lot of circuits,” Aziz said, staring at the monitor. “If we get this wrong…”

“We won’t,” Jim said with certainty. “Trust me. I designed it. I know what I’m doing.”

Aziz looked at Tarek and Jim tensed for a moment, anticipating their objections, but Tarek eventually sighed and nodded.

“He designed it. And the schematics look good,” Tarek pointed out. He looked at Jim. “Okay. You take lead.”

There was no air movement under the panels, and it was hot, but they could hear each other without difficulty. Jim coordinated the remapping, walking Tarek and Aziz through the steps of the schematic glowing in brilliant detail in his mind. They chattered as they worked, ribbing each other and trying to best each other in speed without making mistakes as they rerouted the delicate circuits. Flat on his back, wrist-deep in components and dripping with sweat, Jim wondered what was happening on Tycho IV.


	4. Chapter 4

“How did you manage to do this much damage?” McCoy asked the young ensign, examining his badly broken ankle. The foot was lying at an unnatural angle. It was obvious at a glance that cartilage and ligaments were also torn. It looked like someone had violently wrenched the ankle to one side. They’d had to slice the boot off just to get a look at it. McCoy couldn’t help but wince at the sight.

“Fell down the Jefferies tube,” the ensign said through his gritted teeth. He was pale and sweating. “Slipped and my foot got caught on the rung. Made an awful sound.”

 _I’ll bet._ “What’s your name?”

“Tarek, sir.”

McCoy glanced up at the monitor. Heart rate and blood pressure were elevated. The young man was clearly in a lot of pain. “Get me 10 mg of Morphine in a hyposyringe. Start a line and hang a unit of Ringers.”

“Yes, doctor.” Ria handed him Tarek’s chart.

“What were you doing in the Jefferies tube, Ensign Tarek?” he asked as he reviewed the chart.

_Ensign Abeer Tarek. Age 29. History unremarkable, with only a few minor burns and scrapes noted in his chart. No known allergies._

He’d seen the tubes as he wandered the decks and wasn’t surprised the man had had an accident climbing around in one of them. They looked like death traps, but Jim had spoken about their function and design with enthusiasm, calling them an absolute necessity for navigating between decks efficiently while managing critical functions – and a bunch of other stuff he hadn’t paid close attention to at the time. He really didn’t give a rat’s ass about them – and he certainly didn’t want to think of Jim crawling around in them either – but at least working in them kept Jim from obsessing about non-existent threats on Tycho IV.

“Performing EC maintenance on Section 8 of the air filtration system. The vents keep closing on Deck 6 and above because something is contaminating the system. The Jefferies tube system is the only way to get to the components controlling Section 8.”

Right. He’d gotten a report on that in Stewart’s morning briefing. Crew were complaining about dry throats and coughs.

“Okay, Ensign, we’re going to get you fixed up,” he said as Ria returned. McCoy accepted the hypo she offered and gently triggered the contents into the young man’s damp neck. “That should help the pain. All you need to do is lie quietly and try to relax.” He gently eased the man’s leg into a better position in preparation for the scan. “You’re in Environmental Control, you said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know Jim Kirk?”

The man smiled, despite the pain lines bracketing his mouth. “Yeah. He was with me when I fell. He got my foot free and helped me out of the tube. Don’t know how I would have managed it without him.”

“Lucky for you, then, that he was there.” McCoy said. Of course, Jim would be in the damn Jefferies tube. Jim had been extremely enthused about his duties in Engineering these past three days, but he hadn’t once mentioned working in dangerous places. McCoy had heard enough detailed Engineering jargon to last three lifetimes, but Jim seemed unwilling to talk about anything else.

“Kirk didn’t come in with you?”

Routine protocol for an injured crew member was to call for medical help and keep the individual calm until someone from Medical arrived on scene. Medical hadn’t received a request to report to Engineering and McCoy was just now wondering how the technician had gotten to Sickbay.

“He wanted to, but Lieutenant Halverson ordered Kirk to work on the DC console instead. Said his skills were too valuable to waste on transport. Two of our techs brought me in.”

McCoy nodded and made a mental note to talk to Stewart about reviewing emergency procedures with the other departments. The _Farragut_ had a small medical staff and, consequently, ship’s protocol stated that Sickbay was to be notified of any illness or injury prior to the patient’s arrival in order to ensure that efficient triaging occurred. Ensign Tarek, however, had arrived unannounced and without proper notification of the medical team. McCoy hadn’t been aware of Tarek’s injury until he was being helped onto a biobed.

McCoy grimaced realizing how easily the small Sickbay could be overwhelmed if multiple patients needing treatment arrived at the same time without warning.

McCoy waited until Ria had the IV in and the Ringers hanging, noting that some of the pain lines in Ensign Tarek’s face had eased, before speaking. “Try not to move your leg. We’re going to take a scan and see how things look.”

The ensign nodded. “I’ve been down that damn tube a thousand times. Don’t know how I lost my footing this time.” His fingers gripped the edge of the biobed as the scanning beam swept slowly over his body. “Am I going to be okay, doc?”

The ensign looked young and scared. “You’re going to be fine.” He gave the man a reassuring smile. The ensign looked too young to be working in dark and dangerous places. “Hold still, now.”

Despite Boyce’s claims that the _Farragut_ was a first-rate ship, she didn’t have all the latest advancements in medical equipment that he was accustomed to using. At SGH, he would have simply ordered the biobed to perform a scan and the computer would have directed the beam automatically. Here, he had to use the hand-held controller Davi handed him to guide the beam to the areas he wanted scanned. In the end, though, while less high-tech, and requiring a few more data input steps, it was just as effective as the more streamlined equipment. In moments, a detailed image of the broken ankle appeared on the monitor at the side of the bed.

“Will I be able to go back to duty tomorrow?” Tarek asked, biting his lip. “Jim and I are planning to perform a complete review of the entire central control panel.”

McCoy stood in front of the monitor, studying the scan. Not only had the ensign broken his tibia and fibula, but the ligaments anchoring his talus were completely torn. The ankle was going to need immediate surgery.

He turned away from the monitor. “I’m afraid not, Ensign.” McCoy explained the findings, lightly touching each area that had been damaged as he talked. “You’re going to need surgery. No more crawling around in Jefferies tubes for you for a few weeks.”

“Do I really have to have surgery?” Tarek asked, his words slightly slurred. The pain meds were finally kicking in and, while the tension around his eyes had softened, his dark gaze was apprehensive.

“If you want to walk again.” McCoy nodded to Ria and Davi, who were hovering close by, awaiting orders. “Get Ensign Tarek prepped.”

“OR 2 is open,” Davi said. “You want Doctor Z’Tar to assist?”

He nodded before returning his attention to his patient. “We’re going to take good care of you, Ensign. You’ll be out of surgery before the end of the shift. With a little time and PT, you’ll be as good as new, and back into those Jefferies tubes before you know it.”

With a gentle pat on the shoulder for reassurance, he left to scrub in.

The surgery took longer than McCoy had anticipated. The ligaments were shredded, completely unrepairable, and they had to be replaced rather than repaired. By the time he stepped away from the table, Tarek had a new ankle. As the young man was moved into recovery, McCoy recorded his surgical notes and a report to Stewart.

“Just another day in Starfleet,” Ria said, joining him at the circulation desk. “That was some fine surgery, Dr. McCoy. Is ortho your specialty?”

“Trauma,” he corrected. He reviewed his final report to Stewart, then sent it.

“Would you like me to get you a meal?”

He blinked at her. A meal… “What time is it?”

“It’s just past twenty-hundred.”

Damn. He’d arranged to have dinner with Jim, but that time was long past. Now he wondered if the kid had eaten at all. He’d noticed that Jim’s appetite hadn’t returned since coming back from Tycho IV, but any attempt McCoy had made to comment on it had been met with flat rebuttals that had told McCoy the subject was a touchy one and, in Jim’s opinion, off limits. As Jim’s physician of record, it was something they were going to have to discuss once they were back home. Sooner, if he lost any more weight.

“Thanks, but no,” he said to Ria, rubbing his stiff neck. “I’m going to turn in. Tarek should sleep through the night and Z’Tar should be able to handle anything routine that comes up.”

Ria smiled. “Have a good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He didn’t bother changing out of his scrubs as he left Sickbay. The corridors were deserted, and he was glad of the solitude as he made his way to his quarters. A shower, a drink and his pillow were his immediate priorities. It had been a long day; a long couple of days.

McCoy was only a few steps from his door when the alarm sounded, and the red-alert lights began to flash. He halted in mid-stride, his blood chilling, his fists clenched.

“Level One emergency. Section 4A, Deck Two.” The calm, cool voice of the ship’s computer echoed down the empty corridor. “Level One emergency. Section 4A, Deck Two.”

As McCoy had learned in class at the Academy, a Level One emergency meant a fire or explosion or chemical leak had occurred, usually in Engineering or one of the Research labs. It often required sealing off a section of the ship to contain the hazard, whether all nearby crew members had been evacuated or not. In Level One situations, the ultimate goal was to maintain the structural integrity of the ship, ensuring the survival of the majority of the crew. Some losses of life were deemed acceptable, even necessary.

McCoy spun on his heels and raced back to Sickbay, chased by the repeating announcement and a growing sense of dread. 

Where in the _fuck_ was Section 4A, Deck Two?

As he raced through the Sickbay doors, he saw the medical team – three nurses and two medics – gathering their equipment. Dr. Z’Tar was frozen in place at Ensign Tarek’s bedside, his eyes wide and frightened. Ria was calmly and efficiently directing the team. “Just the regular cases for now. We don’t know what the situation is at the moment.”

McCoy joined her. “Where is the emergency?”

“Auxiliary Control. We’re standing by for the deploy signal.”

Stewart entered, dressed in daily blacks, clearly having just got out of bed, given his unshaved face and rumpled hair. “Okay, team, let’s get organized before our patients arrive. Respiratory support and burn care will likely be our top priorities. Get a clean room set up in case there are toxin exposures. I want OR 1 ready for immediate use. Move all existing patients into the back or discharge them to their quarters, if you think they’re stable for the time being. We’ll use the main bay for triage. Leonard, grab a kit and get down there with the team. Ria will be your second-in-command. I know they haven’t called for us yet but get as close as you can until they do. Seconds are going to matter. A Level One emergency usually means multiple victims and traumatic injuries. Keep us apprised.”

McCoy grabbed the nearest emergency medical case. “Ria, I hope you know where we’re going because I sure don’t. Z’Tar?”

“Sir?”

“Be careful when you move Ensign Tarek. The first round of osteo-regeneration is still in progress. I don’t want those bones jostled.”

“Of course.”

Stewart waved them off. “I’ll run triage here. Z’Tar, stick close and follow my lead.”

“But—”

Case in hand, McCoy followed the team out the door at a full run, the remainder of Z’Tar’s protest unheard. He caught up with them at the lifts. The lifts had been halted – standard procedure during a Level One emergency – and he used his medical override to summon transport. Fortunately, one arrived immediately, and they piled into the empty space. McCoy could feel the lift dropping, the whine of the mechanics loud in the silence. No one said anything, the tension palpable as they waited for the doors to open deep in the bowels of the ship.

After an eternity, the lift stopped, and the doors slid open.

The corridor ahead was long and curved and filled with tendrils of smoke. The sounds of shouting voices and coughing spurred them into motion. Maddeningly, they couldn’t see what lay beyond the curve of the corridor. Racing toward the source of the smoke, McCoy wondered what hell he was running into – fire, certainly, given the smoke. But caused by what? Were the fumes and smoke toxic? Were they risking getting caught in more explosions?

All thought ceased abruptly as three security personnel were suddenly visible in the increasingly smoky corridor, blocking their way and preventing them from going any farther.

“Out of the way!” McCoy barked, trying to push past the burly guards.

“No one’s going anywhere,” one of the guards said, his words muffled behind his breathing mask. “The fire suppression team is clearing the smoke and there’s been a chemical leak. You can’t go any closer until they clear the area. It’s not safe without masks and, right now, I don’t have any extras to give to you.”

McCoy coughed as the acrid fumes invaded his lungs, making his eyes water. “There’s injured people down there. I can hear them. Get out of the way, for Christ’s sake, so we can help them. Waiting for care is only gonna make their injuries worse.”

“And if you’re incapacitated, doc, that’s not going to do them any good in the long run.” The burly guard shook his head. “I’m sorry, but this is as far as you go until they clear the hallway. According to the fire suppression team, they’ve nearly got things under control.”

McCoy’s mouth tightened into a thin line. He knew the security guard was right, but the delay made him impatient. Adrenaline still raced through his veins and he shifted restlessly from foot to foot, fighting the rising tide of impotence and frustration that shouted at him to do something. He wondered if this is how Jim had felt when no one – including himself – had believed the kid’s tale about seeing something down on the planet?

He strained to see past the guards as the smoke finally began to clear. The sounds of racking coughing increased, along with shouted orders and cries of pain, a harbinger of worse to come. Taking a fresh, white-knuckled grip on his medical case, McCoy took a small step forward, his mind racing as he imagined what lay beyond their sight.

The smoke thinned, then vanished, sucked away by an unseen force, leaving behind a sulfurous taste that coated the back of McCoy’s throat. Time was critical. A crewmember could die in minutes from exposure to toxic compounds or blood-loss or severe burns. Their job was to quickly assess each patient’s need and prioritize treatment order based on their injuries – who was critical, who was stable, who could wait. In a perfect setting, everyone would get the immediate care they needed, but in multiple victim situations, they had to decide who received treatment first.

_Come on. Come on._

He looked around at his team. They were poised for action, equipment in hand, their bodies and faces tight with tension. Ria met his gaze, her brown eyes worried, but otherwise calm. Pierson and Jablonski, the two med techs, looked scared. The ongoing cries of pain and distress, punctuated with exclamations of alarm, only added to their fear. He was going to have to keep a close eye on the two of them. Ria’s fellow nurses, Margroni and P’tel, were grim-faced but any nervousness they were feeling was under control. Like Ria, they had been serving on the _Farragut_ for several years and, again like Ria, they were mature and experienced. Stewart had done a good job setting up the triage team; the nurses triaging the victims weren’t likely to panic and the techs would only be required to assist when an extra pair of hands was needed.

No one uttered a word, as they restlessly shuffled in place, their bodies taut with dread and anticipation. They were like racehorses at the starting gate, primed and ready to leap once the bell sounded.

The guard put a hand to his ear, listening to his comm. “Okay. We’re clear. You’re good to go, doc.”

McCoy didn’t wait for them to move aside. Heart in his mouth, he pushed past, brushing shoulders, and ran down the corridor, the rest of the team close behind. As he cleared the curve, he came to an abrupt stop, the obscene scene laid bare before him shocking him into stillness.

The corridor opened into a wider space that had once been an intersection of corridors. The hallways branching off on the left and right sides had closed and locked access doors, preventing anyone beyond them from entering the triage area. The space directly ahead – the continuation of the corridor he was standing in – now abutted a large set of double doors that closed off the main entrance to Engineering. Red-shirted Engineering crew members dominated the newly created bay, which was a beehive of activity. The men and women worked feverishly, removing the protective panels covering the emergency control systems recessed into the corridor walls, intent on setting up emergency monitoring stations as quickly as possible.

“Make sure those damn doors stay sealed!” a lieutenant, judging by the stripes on his singed sleeve, shouted hoarsely. “The compartment behind them is toxic. If it breaches, we’re all dead. Tell Ensign Carruthers to override the backup controls and reverse the EV. We should be able to vent through the port cargo access.”

McCoy dropped his gaze lower, away from the frantic activities of the scrambling engineering crew trying to regain control, to the bodies littering the crowded floor.

Several crewmembers were sprawled on the deck, faces smudged with smoke. Whether limp and unmoving or partially conscious, they were being tended to by other red-shirted technicians. Oxygen masks were being ruthlessly held over the victims’ noses and mouths despite their cries of pain, coughing, and flailing hands. It was like a grotesque lenticular image; from one angle it looked like the injured crew were being tortured. Blink, and it was a desperate attempt to save lives.

The noise muffled the stream of orders being issued as the technicians hastily stepped over the wounded, desperately trying to coordinate their efforts to regain control.

McCoy absorbed the scene in front of him in a single sweeping glance: five crew down. No obvious burns or bleeding. But that left a hell of a lot in-between.

“Ria, take half the team and begin on the right,” McCoy ordered. He had to raise his voice to be heard over the chaos. “You know the triage drill. Call out if you need help assessing anyone. Pierson, Margroni, you’re with me,” he directed as he headed toward the bodies on the left side of the floor. “Start here and work your way towards me. I’ll start at the back, where the injuries look more serious, and work my way forward.”

He was stepping over and around injured crewmembers when a loud voice shouting a familiar name brought him up short.

“Kirk! Kirk! Stop! Move your hands, man!”

McCoy’s turned his head from side to side, trying to identify the location of the voice in the cacophony. His gaze abruptly snagged on the sight of a dirty gold shirt in a sea of red. Sprawled on the decking at the far end of the truncated corridor, just outside the massive double doors, was a figure writhing in pain. The man had the heels of his hands pressed over his eyes as two technicians wrestled with him, trying to pull his hands away from his face.

“We need some help over here!”

“Kirk, we need to flush your eyes! Drop your fucking hands!”

“Christ! Did he inhale it, too?”

“Medic! We need help here!”

Jim. That was _Jim_ who was keening in agony.

Spurred into action, McCoy quickly made his way to Jim’s side. Dropping his medical case, he fell to his knees. Jim’s heels drummed into the deck as he arched up beneath their restraining hands.

“What’s he been exposed to?”

“FLX10.” The technician had the unused emergency eyewash kit in one hand and a grip on Jim’s wrist with the other. “Vapor contact, with inhalation. We barely got him out before Halvorsen closed the doors.”

 _Fuck!_ No wonder security had kept them out. FLX10 was highly toxic and corrosive, and when inhaled damaged the entire respiratory system, from nasal tissues to alveoli.

“Margroni!” McCoy barked, not turning away from Jim. “I need you STAT! I’ve got an ophthalmic contamination with FLX10.”

He needed to flush Jim’s eyes _now_.

He didn’t bother to try and reason with Jim, knowing the inferno of pain the chemical was causing had driven Jim beyond any rationale control of his actions. Instead, he grabbed the kid’s wrists and pulled with all his strength, forcing Jim’s arms to the floor.

Jim’s face was a reddened, twisted mask of agony. His eyelids were already an angry red and swelling shut. As soon as Jim’s hands cleared his face, the technician swiftly drenched Jim’s eyes with the eyewash solution.

Margroni skidded to a halt next to him, jostling the Engineering technician aside, snapping open her case. She didn’t need to be told what to do. She was fast, her hands deft, as she quickly covered Jim’s eyes with duel spray heads and flushed his eyes with a powerful neutralizing wash.

Jim continued to fight as the solution flowed, pulling hard against McCoy’s restraining hands and jerking his head from side to side, as he fought the pain caused by the treatment.

“Don’t,” Jim sobbed. “Fuck! Make it stop. It burns.” He screamed through clenched teeth, his jaw locked against the pain, as another wave of agony crested. His body convulsed as a series of coughs assaulted him.

“Hold him down!” McCoy ordered, and the two Engineering technicians scrambled to obey, each of them grabbing an arm and using the weight of their bodies to hold Jim’s arms against the floor.

Freed from his role as captor, McCoy reached into his medical case and quickly retrieved a hypo. He checked the setting and injected the contents straight into Jim’s carotid artery. Within seconds, the powerful sedative hit Jim’s system and he went limp. “Flush everyone’s eyes and get them into decon. They’ve been exposed FLX10,” he ordered the medical team. “Implement emergency protocol two-b.”

Ria appeared at his side with a scanner out, passing it over Jim while McCoy pulled out an oxygen mask and fixed it in place over Jim’s nose and mouth. Jim’s coughing had stopped, along with his struggles, when the sedative rendered him unconscious, but buying that surcease from pain meant a risk of lower oxygen saturation and fluid buildup in the lungs from the damage caused by the gas.

“BP 183/98, pulse 162, respirations 34,” Ria said efficiently, her eyes never leaving the scanner. “First degree burns on his face, neck and hands. Numerous bruises and contusions. The scan is showing inflammation in his nose, throat and lungs.” Her breath hitched. “Dr. McCoy, his corneas are showing quite a bit of damage…”

 _Dammit to fucking hell. “_ He’s in pain and needs immediate transport. We can’t do anything more for him here. Pierson, call for a stretcher, STAT. Margroni, you go with him and keep flushing his eyes. Don’t stop until Stewart tells you to halt treatment.” He pointed a finger at her. “Stewart, mind you, not Z’Tar.”

“Got it.”

“Stretcher on the way,” Pierson called out.

“McCoy, what’s the sit-rep? How bad is it?” a voice asked.

McCoy looked up to find Alvarez standing nearby, scanning the triage deck. He looked to Ria for an update. He hadn’t had time to get to anyone but Jim.

“No fatalities, sir,” Ria reported. “One of the ensigns is unconscious and has a concussion. It looks like he took a blow to his head in the explosion. FLX10 exposure is mild to moderate for the remaining victims.”

“What about Kirk?”

McCoy grimaced. “He’s among the worst of the injured. He has serious damage to his eyes. I won’t know how badly until we get him to Sickbay.”

“It’s contained, sir,” the lieutenant McCoy had seen a few minutes ago appeared next to Ria. “We’re in secure lock down.”

“Everyone in this corridor needs to go to the decontamination chamber,” McCoy said. “Level One. Including you, sir. Even a trace exposure to FLX10 can cause measurable damage.”

Alvarez nodded, and the lieutenant began barking orders. McCoy sighed in relief as a line of gurneys appeared from around the curve of the corridor, moving fast, and he motioned the leading gurney over.

“How are the cadet’s lungs?” Alvarez asked, chewing on his lip.

FLX10 was caustic in any form. If inhaled, it damaged the lungs and the trachea, destroying the lung’s ability to maintain adequate oxygen exchange. Even slight exposure caused edema, and inhaling significant amounts could shut the lungs down completely. His hands gently probed Jim’s neck, feeling for any swelling, but it was his own throat that felt tight. “Pulmonary edema is likely based on his other symptoms. Again, we won’t know if there’s permanent damage until later.”

“What was he doing on the DC team?” Alvarez asked the Lieutenant.

“I requested him, sir.”

McCoy glanced up at the Lieutenant. He looked shocked and guilt-ridden. McCoy pressed his lips together to keep from saying something that would get him reprimanded. He didn’t have time to chew out the idiot for putting a cadet in a risky department like Damage Control. Kirk needed immediate transport to Sickbay.

“Okay, folks, get Kirk on the gurney while I tag him,” McCoy ordered. “We’ll take the others one at a time, starting with the concussion case, once Jim’s loaded and off.”

McCoy placed a yellow tag on Kirk’s chest and entered a brief summary of Jim’s treatment and status on the accompanying PADD. Per protocol, Stewart would review it, and listen to Margroni’s verbal report, before beginning treatment. “Keep everyone on oxygen and get them tagged. We need to roll.” He pulled his communicator out of his back pocket as Jim’s gurney prepared to depart. “Sickbay, the explosion in Engineering released a cloud of FLX10. We have five victims down, one with ocular burn injuries and one with a concussion, and all five are on supplemental oxygen. We have multiple crewmembers exposed to FLX10 and smoke inhalation. The medical team has also been exposed. We’re transporting the first victim now.”

Everyone exposed to the toxin would need to be decontaminated before being evaluated for needed treatment. Anyone with significant exposure injuries would need to be isolated in a clean room in Sickbay to protect vulnerable tissues while they healed. Handling the large numbers was going to be a nightmare in the confined space of Sickbay.

McCoy watched as Jim was rushed down the hallway, his limp, pale form unnaturally still on the gurney. McCoy wanted to follow, but he was running triage and the other patients were his responsibility, as well. He had no choice but to stay. He followed Ria to the next patient and tried not to focus on his job.

Thirty minutes later, McCoy hurried into Sickbay. The last two patients were right behind him. The main bay was bustling with activity as medical personnel worked around two of the biobeds. McCoy recognized Z’Tar standing by one of the beds reading a chart. He quickly glanced at the two patients being cared for and his stomach knotted. Jim was not resting on either of the occupied biobeds in sight.

“Where’s Kirk?” he asked the circulation nurse.

“ICU number two. Stewart’s with him. He initiated Level One infection control protocols,” she replied, sounding harried, before turning to address the techs manning the gurneys. “Put those two in beds five and eight,” she instructed the team following McCoy.

McCoy hesitated only a second before rushing to the scrub room. He didn’t want to chance exposing Jim to any more of the toxin. He stripped and stepped into the small stall, standing still while the sonic blast cleansed him of any foreign substances. Once the chime sounded the all clear, he exited. As quickly as he could manage, he changed into a fresh pair of scrubs and strode down the narrow hall that provided access to the ICU rooms. _Farragut_ only had two such rooms, and they were used only when absolutely necessary.

Most patients were kept in the main bay where they could be easily monitored, by sight as well as by telemetry. But today, Stewart was using one of the two rooms as a clean room, with micro-filtered air and a broad sterilization field engaged to prevent secondary infections. The door was shut but opened automatically as McCoy approached.

Stewart, hunched over Jim’s motionless body, was in the process of running a C3 Ophthalmic regenerator over his eyes. Jim’s lids had been pried open with an ophthalmic speculum that a nurse held in place while Stewart worked. A sheet was pulled up to Jim’s hips, leaving his torso exposed. McCoy noted the first-degree burns that stretched from Jim’s neck to his shoulder where he’d been exposed to the toxic fumes. His entire face was the same shade of angry red. An oxygen mask covered his nose and mouth and several IV bags hung above the bed.

McCoy glanced up at the monitor. Jim’s blood pressure had stabilized and was now a more reassuring 128/74. Still high for him, but reasonable given the circumstances. His pulse was still a bit elevated at 92 but his respirations were normal, at 14. McCoy was also relieved to see that Jim’s oxygen saturation levels were at 97%.

“How’s he doing, sir?”

Stewart’s gaze snapped up sharply and he quickly assessed McCoy. He relaxed, apparently mollified by the sight of clean scrubs. “Glad to see that you’re properly decontaminated and without any lasting damage. I need you fit, McCoy. I was afraid I was going to be stuck with Dr. Z’Tar as my only other physician. As for your friend,” he said, turning back to Jim. “He’s holding his own. His lungs aren’t too bad, surprisingly, but his eyes….”

McCoy stepped to the other side of the bed and observed as Stewart finished the treatment. Jim’s eyes were open and unfocused, his irises still a remarkable blue.

“His corneas and conjunctiva sustained significant damage,” Stewart reported as he withdrew the unit. “He was exposed for more than twenty minutes, and the emergency eye flushing was delayed. There’s a hell of a lot of inflammation. We won’t know a damn thing for sure until it’s reduced but I’m hopeful he’ll react well to the regen. We’ll start Invilone drops, too, to encourage healing of the corneas.”

McCoy leaned in to examine Jim’s eyes, gently probing the tissue around the orbit. Jim’s eyelids were swollen and the skin around his eyes showed first degree burns. He could see that a number of blood vessels had burst in the sclera, and it looked gelatinous with edema. The exogenous blood would reabsorb over time and the edema would dissipate as healing progressed. It was the corneas that were a cause for concern.

McCoy couldn’t imagine Jim accepting or functioning well with permanently impaired eyesight.

“We treated his burns with Celephine 2. They don’t look too bad. His skin should recover in a few days, but it’ll be uncomfortable.” Stewart nodded to the nurse. “Let’s get a bandage over these eyes and let them rest. No direct light except for the required pupil checks.”

McCoy stepped back to allow the nurse access and stared up at the small forest of IV bags hanging at the head of the biobed. Antibiotics and anti-inflammatories, Ringers and a narcotic drip. All drugs safe for administration given Jim’s history. Proof that Stewart had taken the time to read the extensive list of allergies on file in Jim’s chart.

“You’re his primary,” Stewart said nodding at the medical chart. “I’ll let you take over from here.” A ghost of a smile raised the corners of his lips. “I’ll head back out to the main bay and terrorize Dr. Z’Tar. It’ll be good experience for him. How are the others?”

“Other than the concussion case, mostly smoke inhalation, a few pulled muscles and bruises. Only one other, the crewman with the concussion, has tested positive for exposure to FLX10. Z’Tar was with him when I got back.”

Stewart sighed heavily in relief and shook his head. “We got lucky, Doctor. It could have been so much worse. Someone in Engineering kept their head and followed procedures.”

Jim hadn’t shared much of that luck, McCoy thought bitterly, looking down at his friend’s unnaturally still body.

The nurse finished bandaging Jim’s eyes as Stewart made his final entries in Jim’s chart and laid it aside. He left, leaving McCoy alone in the small room with the unfamiliar nurse. He hadn’t bothered to make friends on the medical staff after arriving aboard, figuring his time on the _Farragut_ was limited. He could see now that might have been a mistake. There was no one he knew well enough to share his fears and concerns with, no one to listen and reassure him that it would all be okay.

That had always been Jim’s role.

Sighing heavily, McCoy studied Jim’s chart, thumbing through the treatments and drugs that had been administered in his absence. Stewart had been appropriately cautious with his use of medications. Jim’s condition needed to be carefully monitored, however, to be sure late manifesting symptoms weren’t overlooked. Exposure to this type of toxin could leave lasting damage. Immediate treatment was critical. Had they gotten to Jim in time?

The biobed monitors were synced with Jim’s medical chart, automatically recording Jim’s vitals. McCoy tabbed to the laboratory section, searching for the lab results from the blood specimens taken almost an hour ago. Jim’s blood work hadn’t yet returned from the lab, so McCoy didn’t know the full extent of the exposure. If only he had the resources of SGH at his fingertips…

“Check with the lab,” he said to the nurse. “I want his blood results ASAP.”

“Yes, doctor,” she said, and hastened out.

After thoroughly reviewing Jim’s chart, McCoy checked the second monitor, the one that projected the detailed scan of Jim’s lungs. Jim’s bronchi were inflamed, but not as much as McCoy had expected based on the damage to his eyes. Stewart was right. Nothing looked life-threatening, and while Jim’s oxygen saturation had dropped a percentage point since his arrival, to 96%, things looked fairly stable. More concerning was the possibility of additional swelling of Jim’s trachea, typical of exposure to a toxin like FLX10. He’d have to keep a close eye on it. It wasn’t uncommon for inflammation to worsen for up to 48 hours after exposure. But for now, he was relieved to see that most of the swelling looked to be affecting the upper airway, not the lungs.

Alone now in the room, McCoy took a moment to really look at Jim. The decontamination process had left his friend’s blond hair shiny and damp. Reaching out with careful fingers, he smoothed the strands of hair that had stuck to Jim’s forehead back into place, wishing that his friend’s other injuries were as easily fixed. Jim’s reddened skin felt flushed and warm beneath McCoy’s touch, a visible and tactile reminder of the damage sustained by Jim’s exposure to the FLX10. The sterile bandage around his eyes was wide enough to cover the thick brows, dropping low enough to touch the edges of the oxygen mask.

“What the hell happened, kid?” he asked, his fingers lingering in the damp hair.

How in the hell does a second-year cadet in an intern program get exposed to toxic levels of FLX10 while five other senior crewmembers walk away with only smoke inhalation? What was Jim doing so close to the explosion? A Level One emergency would have precluded a cadet’s involvement in the response to the event, so exposure hadn’t happened as a result of fighting the fire resulting from the explosion. The last time they had talked, Jim had been assigned to the Auxiliary Damage Control systems, working under the strict supervision of an experienced crew member. McCoy couldn’t make any sense of what had happened, or why.

Jim’s chart beeped softly, and McCoy’s grim thoughts scattered. Jim’s blood work was back. He opened the file and began to read the results.

Chem panel normal. Blood glucose was low. CBC was normal, except for the hemoglobin level. Normal values for a healthy adult male fell into a range between 13 and 15; Jim’s was 11. Not alarming but… McCoy remembered noting that Jim was underweight on his pre-landing party physical. Was this low value related to that? Frowning, McCoy made a mental note to closely scrutinize Jim’s diet for the next few weeks.

Continuing his review, he noted that the liver panel showed significant elevations in liver enzymes, which wasn’t surprising. Just more evidence that measurable levels of FLX10 had entered Jim’s system. It would take time for the liver to detoxify it.

The doors slid open with a soft hiss. He turned his head to see Ria standing at the threshold. “Dr. Stewart needs you.”

His mouth tightened. He didn’t want to leave Jim. If Jim woke up, he would be in pain, blind and confused. McCoy wanted a familiar voice nearby when he awoke.

“We can monitor him from the circulation desk,” she said, seeing his hesitation. “I’ll notify you the moment he shows signs of consciousness.”

ICU patients weren’t supposed to be left unattended and monitored from afar. At Starfleet General, the ICU was a large room where medical staff had easy physical access to the patients. But this wasn’t SGH. He didn’t care how advanced the technology was, a patient needed the reassurance of a comforting hand, a soothing word. And Jim… Jim would fight all of that, unless it was McCoy doing the touching.

But he didn’t have a choice. He was one of only three physicians on the ship and the injured crew needed him, as well. McCoy gave Jim a final look, his chest heavy, then turned and followed Ria out.


	5. Chapter 5

Unrelenting pain brought the world back.

A steady, throbbing stab of pain beneath his lids, as if tiny shards of glass had been caught under the delicate skin, kept time with the hammer strokes in his temples. He tried to blink his eyes to ease the torment, but nothing moved. The muscles around his eyes seemed paralyzed. All he could do was lie helplessly as the pain slowly ratcheted up.

He tried to raise his arms. A few fingers twitched, but that was all he could manage. His arms were useless, enervated by a sense of profound lethargy. Desperate, he tried again to move, to see. He managed to lift his head slightly, his muscles screaming in protest, only to ignite a high-pitched ringing that filled his ears and made the darkness spin. His stomach tightened, and he moaned helplessly as the pain fountained in response to his efforts.

Fuck, his eyes hurt, and his head pounded mercilessly, making it difficult to think. His thoughts were sluggish and illusive. Something had happened.

He remembered… what?

Alarms. Fire. Smoke.

Memories gathered like ghosts at the edge of his consciousness, obscure shadows that seemed threatening, fragmented pieces of multiple puzzles, jumbled and illusive.

A shape, a mist, a transparent cloud, rising from behind the smoking console. The smell of rot and decay. The promise of death.

He gagged, sending his head reeling. He sensed, rather than heard, someone draw near.

He froze, fear spiking.

The darkness roiled, without shadow or form, but he knew someone was there. Close. Too close.

His memories shifted. Strong hands held him down as solar flares of pain erupted in his eyes. Frank had landed some good ones this time; he must have been more drunk than usual.

_“Just stay quiet, Jimmy,” Sam whispered. “He’ll pass out soon. He won’t hit you again tonight, I promise. You’ll be okay. It’s not bad this time.”_

But Sam wasn’t telling him the truth because his eyes and his head were killing him, and it was painful to breathe, his lungs on fire, burning with each breath. Frank must have hit him harder than usual, maybe with more than his fists, and he must be really hurt, because Sam only turned down the lights to near-dark when it was bad like this, so he could rest. It was how they always the aftermath of Frank’s rampages. They just tried to find a way to get through it, let the time pass and their bodies heal, because fuck if anybody was coming to rescue them.

But he didn’t want to be in the darkness. The dark was dangerous, too. He’d have no chance to run if he couldn’t see Frank coming.

_Lights._

The word was clear and articulate in his mind, a familiar, simple command. He’d said it thousands of times, but his thick tongue refused to voice the word in his head. All that escaped from his lips was a guttural groan.

He felt fear whisper across his stinging skin even as he recognized the familiar effects of a strong narcotic. Except he must be mistaken, he was in too much pain for that to be right. There must be another reason why his body had ceased to obey him.

“Jim.” A warm hand on his bare shoulder.

He flinched at the touch, fear spiking, and sucked in a sharp breath.

_“Shhh. Stay quiet,” Sam hissed._

The hand didn’t squeeze and wrench, didn’t punch and maul, didn’t leave purple and blue bruises shaped like fingers and fists behind. Instead, it rested on his shoulder, the thumb gently caressing the dip above his clavicle.

Sam always petted him like this when things were bad, as if he were a spooked horse about to bolt, desperately in need of a soothing touch. He’d find that one spot that didn’t hurt on Jim and just rub his fingers back and forth until Jim fell asleep.

The sound of muffled voices rose softly and fell, penetrating the dense fog in his head. The calm, lilting words were distorted and jumbled, and he strained to hear, to speak.

“Sam.” The word was faint, a breathless plea. “Sam. Safe?”

The cool, comforting hand moved to his face and lightly cupped the burning skin of his cheek. “I’ve got you, Jim. Go back to sleep.”

No, he couldn’t, didn’t dare, go back to sleep. Sam was always telling him stuff like that – not to worry, stay put, be quiet. But it never worked.

Better to monitor, to watch, and _know_ where the danger was located. Monitor it for clues, for weaknesses. Sometimes you could escape that way.

And sometimes you couldn’t.

_A thunderous blast. A silent cloud of nothing rising on invisible wings. And, then, a different cloud of mist boiling forth, burning everything it touched. Danger. Coldness._

Sudden intense fire scorched his eyes, leaving agony in its wake, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. The pain drilled deeper, into his skull, blocking out any further thoughts, leaving ash and destruction behind.

He wanted to tell Sam he was sorry, but he didn’t know why. He must have done something wrong. He was always doing something wrong. _Don’t be angry_ , _Sam,_ he thought as exhaustion pulled him down into the soundless, depthless dark. _I’m sorry. I’ll run faster next time and he won’t catch me._

The last thing he felt was the thumb gently stroking the deep indentations in his bottom lip where his teeth had bitten down to stifle his screams.

When he woke again it was still dark. His eyes still hurt, too, but despite that pain and the throbbing agony in his head, his memory was clearer.

He remembered people shouting at him and strong hands pinning him down. He’d railed at them and fought against their unyielding grip, and now his body felt battered and bruised. But that had been after… after the cool bite of metal beneath his burning hands, after dragging Iverson’s heavy body, his breath choking in his throat as he coughed and struggled for clean air.

A faint ringing filled his ears, but underneath it, he heard the insistent and assorted electronic beeps that comprised the unmistakable sounds of biobed monitors in Sickbay. But Sickbay had never been dark like this. Within its white walls, there were always bright, white overhead lights and flashing equipment and monitors showing all your secrets in a rainbow of colors. Doctors and nurses dispensed treatment in a choreographed dance of sharp-eyed scrutiny and deft movements.

He’d always hated being at their mercy – or lack of it.

And hospitals and clinics and Sickbays all smelled the same, a unique blend of antiseptic and sterility and desperate emotions. But, oddly, that distinct medicinal scent was absent right now. Instead, he could taste the odor of sulfur clinging to the back of his throat and permeating his nasal passage. The scent ignited a memory, nausea climbing upward from his churning stomach.

_The smell of burnt hair and rotting flesh hung in the air above the smoking field like a morning haze, dulling the sun and staining the sky._

_“Don’t look,” the woman said, her voice thin, as she covered his eyes with her shaking hand._

_But he’d already seen the piled bodies littering the field, their flesh burnt and smoldering, their crooked limbs a travesty of life._

He turned his head, trying to escape the memory. His neck spasmed and an intense pounding escalated in his head. His eyes were on fire; it felt as if someone had suddenly drawn a blade across them, the pain cutting and deep. He moaned in agony, the sound more like that of a tortured animal than anything human.

What had happened? Why was he hurting so badly? What was wrong? Why couldn’t he _see?_ He dragged his hand up to his face, alarmed at how heavy and uncoordinated his arm felt.

A strong, gentle hand captured it, startling him.

“Easy, Jim. Your eyes are bandaged. You need to be careful not to put any pressure on them.”

The words were muffled, as if cotton had been stuffed in his ears. He frowned, and the pain behind his eyelids flared, leaving bright trails of torment in the utter blackness. The hand continued to hold his, anchoring him to the biobed. His heart hammered, and his chest heaved, as he fought the tightness squeezing his chest. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.

_Why couldn’t he see?_

Perspiration broke out on his forehead as a sick, hot wave of dread washed through him.

_My eyes… what was wrong with his eyes?_

“You’re in Sickbay, Jim. There was an accident. We’re taking good care of you.”

The soothing voice was familiar, but the words slipped away, uncomprehended and lost, into the lightless void as panic scattered his thoughts. The dark and the relentless pain in his eyes and head consumed him, leaving him with only the roar of his blood rushing in his ears.

“Jim? Jim? Can you hear me? C’mon, kid, talk to me.” Cool fingers stroked his brow. “Can you hear me, Jim?”

_I… I…_

He tried to talk, to respond, but his throat hurt, and he couldn’t make his tongue work. Instead of words, a low moan was all he could manage.

The hand holding his flexed but retained its firm grasp. Another voice – softer, lighter – whispered in the darkness. He strained to hear until a hot rivulet ran up his arm, causing him to gasp.

Suddenly, like raising a curtain, the smothering welter of pain and fear lifted and the roaring in his ears subsided. He drew a shaky, shallow breath through his nose and felt the cool flow of oxygen tickling his nostrils.

“Jim? Can you hear me?”

He grunted in response. He knew that voice, knew that touch. Sickbay. Bones. He closed his fingers around the hand that held him. Bones’ hand.

“Do you know who I am, Jim?”

He snorted softly, instead of replying, because his throat was fucking killing him, and his tongue seemed too big for his mouth.

“Say something, Jim.” McCoy urged, squeezing his hand encouragingly. “Use your words, kid.”

Shit, his eyes felt as if someone were shoving needles into them. The sharp, painful jabs made it difficult to concentrate. His chest ached and every breath he drew felt tight, like it did when he had an anaphylactic reaction. He coughed faintly, the spasms racking his lungs.

“Jim,” McCoy’s voice was louder now, and more insistent. Jim felt the other man’s breath against the side of his neck. “Is this better? Can you hear me?”

“… hear you.” His words were a faint whisper, far from the annoyed affirmation he’d intended to utter. His throat felt swollen and achy, and even whispering those few words hurt.

“That’s good, kid. Do you recognize my voice? Do you know who I am?”

Why the fuck was Bones asking him these stupid questions? Didn’t he know it was painful to talk? That it felt like his throat was on fire when he tried to speak?

“Jim! Answer my question, kid. It’s important. I need to know if that brain of yours is working.”

Jim sighed. He knew Bones wasn’t going to quit badgering him until he had his answers, so Jim forced the word out past his raw, aching throat. “Bones.”

A sudden gust of expelled air tickled Jim’s neck.

“Okay. Good. That’s good.” Bones’ hand squeezed his reassuringly. “I know your throat’s hurting. The fumes from the toxins damaged your exposed tissues. The inflammation will improve in a day or two, and it should clear completely in a week or so. I’m going to let go of your hand for a minute and get you some medication to drink. It’ll help the pain and dryness.”

A moment later, something stiff nudged his lower lip. Reflexively, he opened his mouth and a straw slipped between his cracked lips. Eager to ease his dry mouth and throat with something wet, he took a dutiful sip.

“Just a little at a time. I don’t want you to choke.”

The liquid was room temperature and slightly sweet, with a faint bitter, medicinal undertone, but he didn’t care. It might not be water, but it was wet, and it soothed the rawness in his throat. Once he started drinking, he didn’t want to stop. He drew greedily, wincing with each swallow but the discomfort was a small price to pay. When the straw was suddenly withdrawn, he made an involuntary sound of protest.

“That’s enough for now,” McCoy said. “Give your stomach time to adjust. Judging from your lab work, it’s been a while since your last meal.”

Jim took a moment to catch his breath, then ran his tongue between his lips, trying to ease the stinging dryness with a little of the residual moisture. “I’m in Sickbay, aren’t I?” he croaked. Then he remembered. “What toxins?”

A faint rustle of paper.

“I have some salve for your lips.” Something soft and yielding stroked cool ointment across his lips. McCoy’s voice deepened. “There was an accident, Jim. In the Auxiliary Damage Control department, where you were working. Do you remember what happened?”

In a flash it came back to him.

The console had exploded. Flames had quickly appeared, and the room had filled with thick, yellow-tinged smoke. The acrid smoke had immediately made it hard to breathe.

“Console blew.”

_The deck shook with the explosion. Knocked off his feet by the percussion wave, he’d gaped, dazed, at the heavy cloud of smoke rising to the bulkhead above the shattered console. Iverson was lying on the deck nearby, unconscious, his face covered in blood._

“That’s right. You were on duty in damage control.”

_The heavy cloud of smoke kept expanding… and something else, a gelatinous shadow, rose from within it. He dashed a hand across his burning eyes, desperate to see through the increasingly murky air, even as he ran toward the console. The smoke billowed, obscuring his gaze and invading his throat and nose, setting off a paroxysm of coughing. Eyes watering, he looked up…_

“Cloud. In the smoke. Like before,” he husked. The rhythm of the background beeping increased. “Saw it.” He shivered. “Couldn’t breathe.”

“Hush, now.” Bones’ drawl was low and honey-smooth. “You’re going to make your headache worse, if you don’t calm down.” A gentle hand carded his hair. “Engineering says the fire created a lot of toxic smoke, Jim, so it’s no wonder you had a hard time breathin’.”

His head pounded in time with his pulse, the pain making it hard to think. He was so tired. The oxygen blew a chilly stream of air into his nose, drying his throat, but the coolness was a welcome balm against the sullen heat that suffused his skin.

_It was right above him, moving in the smoke. He felt it … living, intelligent, seeking. It swept down with incredible speed just as Iverson’s hand weakly encircled his ankle._

“No.” He forced the word past his raw throat. “Not smoke. A cloud.”

“No, Jim.” McCoy’s voice was measured and patient. “The entire room was filled with smoke and toxins. We couldn’t even get in to help. They had to lock down the deck until it was cleared.”

He searched his memories, but there was only darkness and overwhelming pain.

“What toxin?”

Pause.

“FLX10, Jim. It affected your vision. You wouldn’t have been able to see anything clearly.”

A cold dread settled on him. Fuck. That wasn’t good. He remembered his eyes burning but had thought it was just the smoke from the burning console. He didn’t remember much after dragging Iverson away, but he knew enough about FLX10 to be concerned. “How much?”

McCoy’s voice was level and calm. “Moderate but significant exposure, given how close you were to the explosion. Luckily it was just to the fumes, and not the actual coolant, but it did some damage, Jim.” Bones’ voice hesitated. “With FLX10 exposure, every second counts. It took nearly twenty minutes to pull you out and start the emergency eyewash protocol. That’s why your eyes are bandaged.”

Any exposure without proper gear could blister flesh, destroy lungs… blind a person.

“Bones?” His heart thudded, and his pulse began to gallop. An alarm began to shrill. Bones’ hands settled on his shoulders, his grip firm.

“Jim—”

What was Bones telling him?

“Is that why I can’t see?” Suddenly, he couldn’t get enough air. He tried to push himself up, but implacable hands kept him from moving. “Am I blind?”

“Stop. Listen to me, Jim. Yes, there’s damage to your corneas, but we’re treating it. Right now, there’s a lot of optic inflammation. We need to wait for it to reduce before we can start regeneration therapy. In the meantime, it’s imperative we keep your eyes covered to protect your corneas from further injury.”

His throat tightened. His eyes burned. His chest heaved. Fear was a bitter coating on the jagged words crowding his tongue.

“Answer my fucking question, Bones,” he rasped, breathing hard. “Am I blind?”

“Calm down, Jim. Your tissues are still so raw and inflamed, it’s impossible to know much at this time. The best thing you can do is to sleep. And when you _are_ awake, I need you to lie quietly.”

Fuck that. “Tell me what you found.”

A heavy sigh. “Like I said, there’s significant corneal edema. The outer layer is burned from the chemical fumes and we’re treating it. I’m hopeful and you should be, too. That’s all I can tell you for now, Jim. We’ll know more after you’ve had time to heal. We have to take this one day, one step at a time.”

He struggled against Bones’ grip. “Let me go.”

Bones hesitated, then released him. “I’m so sorry, Jim.”

His lips twisted. Regret was pointless. Being sorry had never gotten him anything, or anywhere, good. He brushed Bones’ sympathy aside before it could weaken his control. “I want to feel the bandages.”

“Jim…”

“Help me or don’t. I need to see—”

 _No_ , he thought, breaking off. ‘See’ was the wrong word. He wanted to feel the bandage, ascertain how thick it was, in order to bolster his hopes that it was the reason for the profound darkness shrouding his world.

Bones seemed to understand. He guided Jim’s hand. “Take it slowly. I don’t want you accidentally poking your eyes.”

Jim hissed as his fingers touched swollen skin.

“Careful. Your skin is burned. It’s already healing, but it’s still pretty sensitive at the moment.”

“How bad?”

“First degree, like a bad sun burn. A few, small patches of second degree, with blisters.”

His hand hovered over his cheek, his fingers trembling from the effort to control his movements. His mind spun. He’d seen pictures of crewmembers exposed to FLX10, their skin burned and blistered. He took a deep breath, forcing the words out. “How much skin involvement?”

“Your hands, face, neck and a small part of your shoulders. Basically, anywhere the uniform didn’t cover. But it’s nothing worth worrying about. I know it’s painful, but a few more days of regen therapy and your skin will be as good as new,” Bones reassured him. “I promise.”

Bones never lied. Never. And yet… His fingers touched the edges of the bandage that covered his eyes. Relief flooded his body. He slowly explored the thick material, avoiding his eyes and skimming his fingers along the edges of the bandage, top and bottom, before his strength faded.

“Now I know how a prisoner in front of firing squad feels. I can’t see a damn thing.”

His arm began to shake. He didn’t resist as Bones drew his hand down, lowering it to his side. He sensed his friend was giving him that patented ‘doctor look.’

“It’s just a bandage, Jim. It’s the best way to rest your eyes and allow the inflammation to resolve, unimpeded.” Bones patted his shoulder.

“What about Ivy?” Had he gotten Iverson out? The leak would have been worse by the console.

“He’s okay. Moderate concussion and minimal exposure to FLX10. Probably because he was flat on the floor. He’ll be released tomorrow. They said you got him out quickly then went back into the room to shut off the valve.” Pause. “You saved the entire deck from exposure.”

“Don’t remember that.” His words were sluggish, his thoughts foggy.

“Rest. Do your eyes hurt?”

“Yeah.” Exhaustion suddenly settled in, pressing heavily, and he sank deeper into the pillows, his head pounding.

“You’re due for eye drops. By the time I finish applying them and rewrapping your eyes, it will be time for more pain medication.”

“Okay,” he slurred, too tired to argue.

“The medication is strong, and it should take care of your pain. But if it doesn’t, let me know, and we’ll figure something else out.”

“Okay,” he repeated, fatigue and pain dulling his brain.

This time, he surrendered willingly to the encroaching dark.

McCoy watched Jim slip into a deep sleep and breathed a sigh of relief.

Once the hefty dose of narcotics took hold, Jim’s respirations had finally slowed into a steady, gentle, untroubled rhythm. McCoy was glad his friend was finally getting some relief.

Sweet Christ, the kid’s eyes were a mess. He’d had to work at keeping his voice and hands steady when he’d gotten a good look at them while doing the drops. Hopefully, the patience he’d counseled Jim to exercise would pay off. Whatever the outcome was, they’d deal with it. And in the meantime, there was no use in borrowing trouble by worrying about the future. As his granddaddy had said, the interest would kill you.

Jim’s vision impairment wasn’t his only problem either. He was anemic and underweight. But more troubling was the short-term memory loss. It wasn’t a symptom of FLX10 exposure. Still, it wasn’t uncommon for a patient experiencing trauma and poor oxygenation to have some gaps in their memory. Jim’s initial confusion and lack of response had been understandable, given the circumstances.

But it had been eighteen hours since the explosion in engineering, and his memory of events was still spotty. Then again, Jim never followed standard recovery expectations. In the year and a half that McCoy had been treating Jim, the man’s body often reacted in ways that defied normal response parameters. He only hoped that this time, in this situation, Jim would be a text-book case when it came to his eyes, and that he would eventually regain normal vision.

Jim’s recovery was likely to be fraught with uncertainty. He should be prepared for that and plan ahead. A good doctor never really knew how a patient would response to treatment and planned accordingly. Even if that meant managing worst case scenarios. The knot in his stomach tightened when he acknowledged the biggest risk – that Jim might never see normally again.

Maybe it wasn’t so crazy, after all, that the creature he’d sworn he’d seen on the planet, and that had figured so heavily in his thoughts of late, ‘reappeared’ during another emergency situation. The mind could play crazy tricks when the brain was hypoxic.

The hiss of the ICU door opening interrupted his thoughts. He expected to see the soft blue of a medical uniform but straightened to attention at the sight of a tall figure in command gold. He released his hold on Jim’s arm and nodded respectfully. “Captain.”

Garrovick stopped at the foot of Jim’s biobed, his expression solemn. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

McCoy felt a flush heat his face and cursed silently. He’d be damned if he was going to apologize for maintaining physical contact with a patient. He didn’t tell Garrovick how to run his bridge, and he wasn’t going to let the man throw him off his stride in Sickbay. He refused to be intimidated by the seasoned officer, even if he was the captain.

“No, sir. How can I help you?” He squashed his nervousness and settled his shoulders, refusing to shift under the discerning gaze.

The older man stared with open concern at Jim. “How is Cadet Kirk? Pike is going to kill me, you know. I promised to keep a close eye on both of you for him.”

Startled, it was McCoy’s turn to stare. The older man’s gaze was kind. Did Garrovick know Jim was his friend, as well as his patient?

“His lungs and skin are showing improvement, sir, but his eyes still have a significant amount of inflammation.”

“Stewart tells me he was damn lucky. I’ve seen FLX10 kill. It’s not a pretty way to die.”

McCoy didn’t know what to say to that. Death was never ‘pretty’ no matter the circumstances.

Garrovick stepped around the end of the biobed, coming close enough to Jim’s side to touch him. “Hell of a thing for a cadet to accomplish. Kirk’s barely begun his second year in the academy. He should have been in his quarters, but Halvorsen said he’s been staying past his shift, helping them out with the repair backlog.”

_Yeah, he should have been safely tucked into his bunk or in the mess eating a decent meal. But since being moved to Engineering, Jim had been mostly AWOL from their daily shared dinners in the mess. And McCoy had let it happen, because the kid’s stoic demeanor and the distant look in his eyes were sure signs that Jim had distanced himself from their friendship. Clearly, Jim had felt McCoy had failed him, and damn, the sense of guilt that awareness evoked sat heavily in his gut._

“Has he been conscious?”

“For a few minutes. We’ve got him heavily sedated in order to manage his pain.”

Garrovick looked at McCoy. “Does he remember the explosion?”

“Bits and pieces. He mentioned the smoke and that it was hard to breathe.” McCoy frowned. “He was pretty confused at times. Rambled some about seeing the cloud creature, again, the one he thought he saw on the planet.”

Garrovick looked surprised. “I wasn’t aware he was still talking about that.”

“He isn’t, when he’s in his right mind,” McCoy said firmly, repressing his misgivings. And it was true; except for his rambling words after he’d initially regained consciousness, Jim hadn’t mentioned anything about the cloud creature since the dinner they’d shared in his cabin days ago. “Jim was experiencing oxygen deprivation and he was breathing in toxins from the smoke. The human brain doesn’t respond normally under those conditions, and patients can imagine all kinds of things.”

“Did he say anything else?”

McCoy tipped his head, trying to figure out what Garrovick was fishing for. “He asked about his injuries and his prognosis.”

The Captain nodded, his expression guarded, but his grey eyes were soft with compassion. “He saved Iverson’s life, you know. Got him out, then went back in to address the coolant leak. Performed a manual shut-off of the air-flow bypass system, triggering the vents to close. It kept the FLX10 contained to the engineering deck. Prevented it from flooding other areas of the ship.” Garrovick shook his head. “Hell of a thing. There’s not many experienced engineering crew members who would have kept their heads enough in that kind of crisis to accomplish what he did. Kirk is either incredibly brave or foolhardy. I’m not sure which.”

Neither was McCoy. But that was Jim, an enigma to be revered and reviled, depending on the circumstances and who was making the observations.

“Pike says Cadet Kirk is his father’s son in many ways,” Garrovick said, turning to look at Jim again. “I can see the similarities. George had that same quick-silver mind. He acted before anyone else even knew they should.”

McCoy frowned. “You knew George Kirk, Captain?”

Garrovick nodded and a soft smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Served with him on the _Kelvin_. I was stationed in Engineering. Just a raw lieutenant on my first deep-space assignment. Knew his mother, too. I think he gets his engineering skills from her. She could reprogram circuits faster than anyone I’ve ever known in an emergency.”

McCoy shifted his weight. Having a conversation about Jim’s mother with the captain while Jim lay unconscious seemed too personal and invasive, especially given Jim’s tenuous relationship with his mother. Jim hadn’t mentioned her since that day – six months ago – when he’d sat in McCoy’s dorm room and, under pressure, made the call to the _Lexington_ , the call his mother had begged Pike to get him to make. After McCoy had returned from giving Jim some privacy to talk, he’d found the younger man still sitting at the terminal, staring at a dark screen with an unreadable expression on his face. McCoy had scrutinized his friend, trying to decipher Jim’s mood, and had cautiously asked how the call had gone. Jim had just shrugged, pushed off the chair and limped out of the dorm. It had been several hours before he had returned, still sullen and withdrawn.

They hadn’t spoken of it since.

Garrovick returned his gaze to McCoy. “Stewart says you saved lives during the leak, that you kept your head and ran triage like a pro.”

Where was Garrovick going with this?

“I reviewed your record. Boyce says you’re the best surgeon he’s ever worked with – and that’s saying something coming from him – but that you resisted this assignment.”

Oh, _that’s_ where he was going.

“From what I’ve seen, you’d make a hell of a CMO. You’ve got the right credentials. You could have your choice of assignments. Starship’s need competent doctors like you.”

“Starfleet General needs good doctors, too, and on Earth I don’t risk getting sucked out during a hull breach.”

“Hull breaches are rare, Dr. McCoy.”

He said nothing.

“You could make a real difference on a ship. Think about it.” With a small nod of his head, he added, “Please keep me updated on Kirk’s condition.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Garrovick left without another word, leaving McCoy alone with his thoughts.

* * *

Inclined at an accommodating forty-five degree angle, Jim lay against the thick cushion of the biobed, dutifully breathing in the cool mist that fed into the small mask covering his nose and mouth. The soft sounds of the bio monitor played in the background. He’d never found the sound comforting or reassuring, but blinded by the thick bandage over his eyes, he clung to the sound in the darkness like a life line. It was something familiar that he didn’t need to decipher, though it was muted slightly over the hiss of the mask. Still, it was better than the hollow, disembodied sound of boots on the deck or the mysterious clinking of medical equipment that often woke him.

He coughed weakly within the mask as the bitter taste of the mist burned his sensitive throat. Fucking FLX10.

“Okay?” Ria – he knew her voice now – asked. A small, soft hand touched his shoulder.

He pulled the mask away and took a shuddering breath. Whatever was in the medicine, it not only irritated his throat, but it was making him nauseated and light-headed. “How much longer?”

“Ten more minutes.” She gently took the mask from him and sealed it back over his nose and mouth.

The medicated therapy was supposed to be helping his lungs to heal. That might be true, but it also caused a profound sense of déjà vu. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the treatments he’d had recovering from pneumonia months earlier. Only that treatment had soothed and cooled. This was one stung and left a fetid taste in his mouth.

“Try and breathe a little deeper,” Ria said. “The medicine needs to penetrate all your lung lobes. Especially the lower ones, down at the bottom of your lungs.”

It hurt to breathe too deeply. Bones had told him the FLX10 had inflamed his bronchi and that his lungs were stressed as they tried to properly exchange oxygen. Or something like that. He hadn’t been paying close enough attention to Bones’ explanation. Captain Garrovick had been in the room at the time and he’d been worried about how he must look – burned and blind, lying naked in a bed with IVs inserted in his arm and an oxygen cannula stuck up his nose. Not how he wanted to converse with the captain of the ship, especially given what Garrovick had to tell him.

_“I’m putting you in for a commendation, son.”_

_Garrovick’s voice was off to his right and he turned his head in that direction, caught off-guard. He’d been unaware that the man had moved from his position at the end of the biobed. “A commendation, sir?”_

_“Starfleet’s Meritorious Achievement. With honors.”_

_An award that cadets were not eligible for. It recognized service members who displayed acts of heroism while performing their duties on behalf of the ship and to ensure crew survival. Heroism? He’d just done his job. Nothing more or less. There had been plenty of other people in the room, crewmembers with more experience than him, who had helped fight the fire after the explosion. Why single him out?_

_Jim’s stomach clenched hard. Was Garrovick doing this because he knew Jim was going to be permanently blind? Was this some sort of sick consolidation prize? A ‘hey, cadet, sorry you’re blind, here have this useless medal as a token of our appreciation’?_

_He drew in a breath too sharply and started to cough, his lungs seizing. He tried to get control because he wanted to ask Garrovick what he’d done to deserve a medal, but the coughing fit worsened, his throat spasming as he struggled to breathe. A sharp chime sounded from the monitor above him. The next thing he knew, Bones was pressing a mask to his face and rushing Garrovick out of the room._

That had been yesterday. Garrovick hadn’t returned.

His stomach tightened, and he quickly swallowed past the nausea, trying to keep what little breakfast he’d manage to eat down. Between the pain in his eyes and whatever medication he was inhaling, his stomach was doing somersaults. It was all he could do to keep from throwing up.

It seemed like an eternity before Ria finally pulled the mask away. He breathed a sigh of relief and took a few shallow breaths of clean air, willing his stomach to settle.

“All done,” Ria said. “You did great, cadet. Want some ice chips?”

He shook his head slowly. The dizziness that had plagued him yesterday had finally receded, but his headache had gotten worse and was doing nothing to help his nausea. To make matters worse, he’d developed a fever and wanted nothing more than to curl under a mound of blankets, but any changes to his position only provoked his headache and Bones didn’t want him lying on his side and risk putting pressure on his eyes. Shivering, he groped for the edge of the blanket. Last night he’d been given a soft hospital gown after the last of his burns had healed, but the fabric was thin and didn’t offer him any warmth.

Ria’s fingers lightly guided his hand to the blanket before quickly retreating. A pang of guilt stabbed at him. He’d lashed out at her last night when she’d tried to help him into the gown. It was one thing to have someone change his bandages or give him water; it was another to need to be dressed like a helpless toddler. At least he could take a piss on his own. He pulled the blanket up to his chest, seeking warmth against the chill.

“Are you cold?”

“I’m fine.” His voice was raspy and thin, and his mouth was as dry as cotton. He should have taken the ice chips.

There was a long moment of silence during which he imagined Ria staring at him like he’d sprung horns. Faint, metallic chinks and muted electronic beeps punctuated the silence. He felt the air move against his bare arms and knew she was close. Probably programming the damn monitor or upping his meds. Fuck. Why didn’t she just leave? Finally, she spoke.

“Do you need anything else before I go?” she asked.

“No.” His head hurt, and the fever made his muscles ache. His healing skin felt thin and sensitive, the sheets like tree bark against his goose-bumped skin. He just wanted to be left alone in his misery.

“Okay, the call button is on the rail to your right.”

He knew where the damn call button was; he wasn’t an idiot. He put a hand to his throat and massaged it lightly in an attempt to ease the soreness. “Where’s Bones?”

“Who?”

“Dr. McCoy,” he said shortly.

“He’s with a patient. He’ll be by shortly. Try to rest and let the medication work until he gets here.”

It was working all right; he was about to throw up.

He heard the hiss of the door closing and lowered his hand to his chest. Christ, his chest was tight, and the medication had set it on fire. How in the hell was he supposed to rest, fighting off nausea and stabbing pain in his eyes, a pounding headache and fever? His chest ached and burned, reminding him all over again of the damage the FLX10 had wreaked.

Fighting shivers, he listened to the sounds of the monitor as he drew shallow breaths. A wave of nausea had him swallowing convulsively.

To take his thoughts away from his physical woes, he turned his mind again to the cloud he’d seen hovering above the console in Auxiliary DC. It had moved rapidly through the thick smoke, passing through the growing billows of smoke in swift undulations. Whatever it was, it had moved from the planet to the ship. Had one of the other landing parties beamed it aboard without knowing? A few teams had transported down and none of them had reported seeing anything of the strange cloud. He knew. He’d read their reports the night before the explosion.

_It had been easy to hack into the ship’s computer. A little more difficult to do it without leaving a trace, but nothing he couldn’t manage, and he’d taken the time to be sure he remained invisible. Hacking into a starship’s main computer would get him severely reprimanded, if not thrown out of Starfleet._

_“Try not to break all the rules,” Pike had said the day he’d left. “Captain Garrovick is a fair man, but he’s third generation Starfleet and he runs a tight ship.”_

_The ship might be tightly run, but their security on essential systems was for shit._

_Jim needed to know what was happening on Tycho IV, what the landing parties were reporting. Alvarez hadn’t answered any of his questions and he couldn’t exactly hunt down the landing party members and interview them, now that he’d been reassigned. He was just a lowly cadet who’d won a highly coveted spot on a ship. In two more weeks, he’d be back in the Academy, forgotten by everyone onboard, hustling from one class to the next, lost in a sea of red uniforms._

_The landing party reports were lengthy, detailed and by-the-book. Uninteresting. Topography maps, geological samples… no lifeforms noted other than insects. And even those seemed illusive, completely absent at times._

_When it came to his own report, he read the comments made by Lt. Evans and cringed._

_“Kirk demonstrated a real ability to plan and execute orders. His selection of team members and preparations for the landing party were thorough and efficient. He has keen senses and a natural ability to lead; however, he also demonstrated a single-minded approach to accomplishing away team tasks. This resulted in an unwillingness to be persuaded to other points of view. While on the surface of Tycho IV, he showed an almost obsessive tendency to continue looking for a sign of life he insisted he saw, ignoring input from other members and endangering the mission.”_

Shit. Evans made him sound like a border-line dictator, and a paranoid one at that. But Jim knew what he’d seen. And now it was on the ship. But why would anybody listen to him now, when they hadn’t believed him before?

“Jim?”

Startled by the close sound of Bones’ voice, he inhaled sharply, his chest twinging sharply in response.

“Sorry,” McCoy said, resting his hand on Jim’s leg. “Didn’t mean to surprise you. Thought you’d hear the door. How are you feeling?”

“Bored.”

“That’s good since you’re supposed to be resting.” McCoy moved closer to the head of the bed. “Are you cold? You’ve got goose-bumps on your arms.”

He grunted and shrugged.

A soft blanket settled over him. Bones tucked it around him like he was a fucking kid.

“Is that better? How do your eyes feel?” McCoy asked.

“Blind.”

“Jim—”

“What do you want me to say? They fucking hurt. And that shit you had me breathe makes me want to puke.”

McCoy sighed. “I know it doesn’t taste great, Jim, but it’s one of the few medications that is effective for treating FLX10 exposure, and the only one you’re likely to tolerate without triggering an allergic reaction.” Jim felt Bones’ hand settle on his arm. Even through the blanket, it felt warm. “You only need one or two more treatments. The last scan images of your lungs showed a noticeable reduction in the inflammation.”

“Then why does it feel like somebody kicked me in the chest every time I take a deep breath?”

When Bones spoke, his voice sounded deliberately soothing. “That’s not surprising. The toxins you inhaled were powerful, and lung tissue is sensitive. I know you don’t want to hear this, but this type of injury takes time to heal. A hundred years ago, exposure to this would have caused permanent lung damage.”

“They didn’t have FLX10 a hundred years ago,” Jim said flatly. Despite Bones’ heavy sigh, he heard the rattle of a tray being pulled near and he turned his head toward the sound. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going to examine you.”

“Who’s in the room?”

“Just the two of us. I want to take a quick look at the burns.”

The blanket was pulled down and his shirt lifted away from his neck. Jim felt Bones’ fingers brush his neck and shoulder, testing the healing skin with gentle strokes. The nerves had fired at the light touch, sending a shiver through him and Jim pulled away reflexively.

“Is that painful or just sensitive?”

“Sensitive, mostly. It feels weird, cold and hot at the same time.”

Bones hummed. “The regeneration makes the nerves hypersensitive for a while. That will lessen each day. There’s not even any redness. It looks good. Healing nicely.”

“Swell.” He groped for the blanket, shivering this time from cold, but McCoy stopped him.

“Hold on. I want to listen to your lungs while you breathe for me.”

McCoy’s hands snuck under his shirt and he pressed a cold instrument to his ribs. He jerked at the icy touch against his skin.

“Sorry. Just breathe normally.”

As if there was another way of breathing, he groused silently. Why was Bones poking and prodding him? Everyone kept telling him to rest and then they constantly interrupted hm when he tried. Jim waited with barely concealed impatience as McCoy moved the instrument from one location to the next. Finally, it withdrew.

“Your lungs sound much better. You need to be sure to breathe deeply from time to time. I don’t want fluid building up in your lungs. These kind of exposures make you susceptible to pneumonia. That’s the last thing you need, and as I’m sure you remember from last time, it’s not a lot of fun.”

The blankets settled in place, adding a welcome return of warmth.

“Okay,” McCoy said. “Let’s take a look at your eyes. Computer, lower patient lights by fifty percent. I’m going to remove your bandages. I want you to hold as still as possible and when the bandages are off, I need you to keep your eyes closed, all right?”

“Yeah.” He tensed automatically as Bones’ hands lightly touched the edge of the bandages.

“Relax,” McCoy soothed. “I’m going to cut through the bandage now.”

It was difficult to relax. His eyes hurt, and his head pounded, and he knew what was coming. The exam, though cursory, was painful. Every time Bones had put drops in his eyes, the process of pulling his swollen lids back had brought sharp agony to them. The exposure to light only amped up the pain and it had been all he could do not to bat Bones’ hands away to find some relief. The only saving grace to the experience was the cool liquid drops placed in his eyes at the end. They instantly soothed the stinging pain and made it much easier to endure having his eyes wrapped again.

He felt the rush of air as the bandage was removed.

“Okay, the bandage is off. Keep your eyes closed.”

The metallic sound of equipment.

“What are you doing?” Jim asked.

“Just getting a scanner. There’s still some swelling around your eyes. I need to have a look. I’m going to lift up one of your lids. I’m going to be as gentle as I can, and I need you to hold still.”

Jim tensed. “Isn’t that what your scanner is for?”

McCoy’s hand felt cool on his face. “It doesn’t tell me how you’re seeing. And we need to put the drops in, as well.” McCoy’s thumb lifted the swollen lid.

He hissed in pain. It felt as if someone had brushed sandpaper across his eye.

“All right. You’re doing good,” McCoy praised.

A flash of diffused light passed across his field of vision, startling him.

“Tell me what you see.” McCoy urged, his hand steady on Jim’s face.

“Nothing.” It was all muddled and smoky. He couldn’t even see Bones.

“Nothing at all? No light? Or shadows?”

“There’s light. And some shadows.” He swallowed hard as his eye teared. “But I can’t see anything clearly. I can’t see you.”

“Where do you see the light?”

The flash of light he’d seen moments ago was gone, but there was another, steadier spot hovering over him. “Above me.” He pointed.

“Okay. That’s good. That’s the overhead light. Your pupil is reacting appropriately to the light, so the right message is getting through to your brain from your optic nerve. That’s highly encouraging. I’m going to look at your other eye now.”

The process was repeated with the same results, leaving Jim’s eyes and head throbbing. It was a blessed relief when Bones put in the drops, gently letting his lids close. The relief was instantaneous, and he began to relax for the first time since Bones had entered the room. As the pain settled down, Bones rebandaged his eyes.

“Do I have to have the bandages on?” he asked.

“Yes, for now. It’s the best way to allow your corneas to heal and reduce the inflammation. We can’t begin any kind of regen until the inflammation is gone.”

As McCoy finished bandaging his eyes, he asked, “Why aren’t they getting better?”

“They are, Jim. From my perspective, things look markedly improved. It’s just going more slowly than expected.”

“Why?”

“Every body heals differently. Yours is just taking more time, but it is progressing. We’ll try increasing the frequency of the drops and I’ll add a systemic anti-inflammatory to your meds. We’ll see if that doesn’t move things along a little faster.” Bones patted his arm. “You just need to be patient and rest.”

The hiss of the door opening sounded, followed by the steady tap of heels on the deck, letting him know someone entered.

“Thank you, Ria,” McCoy said.

The sound of equipment moving on the floor sounded overly loud.

“What’s that?” he asked turning toward the sound. “Another treatment?”

“Lunch.”

“I’m not hungry.” His stomach was still queasy.

“You need to eat, Jim. You’ve lost more than three kilos since boarding the ship. We’ve need to get your weight back up. No more skipping meals.” McCoy’s tone left no room for argument. “Without proper nutrition, your body will have trouble healing.”

Of course, Bones knew he’d been skipping meals. The man was obsessed with what Jim put in his mouth. For a number of reasons – overall health, resource status, even popularity of individual dishes – every crewperson’s nutrition was tracked through medical. Each time Jim accessed the replicator – or didn’t – resulted in a notation to the logs. As a physician, McCoy would have had access to the records showing when and what Jim had eaten. What McCoy couldn’t know from the data, was _why_ he hadn’t eaten when he skipped meals.

Jim wasn’t about to have _that_ conversation with Bones. Especially not now, when he was trapped in a biobed. It was nobody’s business but his whether he chose to eat or not. Since… for a while now, he’d had finicky appetite. Talking about food jabbed at painful memories that were best left alone. He didn’t want to remember any of it. Bad enough the smell of that place still haunted him.

So, he did what any great tactician would do: he deflected.

“How in the hell am I supposed to eat when I can’t see? And I’m not going to be fed like a goddamn baby.” He’d barely gotten any of the eggs onto the spoon this morning and finding his mouth had been more of a challenge than he’d expected. He’d managed a few mouthfuls of scrambled eggs before exhaustion took control and the spoon had dropped from his shaking fingers. The medic who had come into the room to clear the tray away had offered to feed him. Head pounding, Jim had thrown him out of the room.

“Here,” McCoy said, taking his hand and pressing a rounded container into it. “It’s warm broth in a closed container. It won’t spill. Drink it. It’ll help settle your stomach.”

Jim doubted that. He used his fingers to feel the shape of the lid and easily found the spout. Bones, the consummate professional, had thought of everything.

“There’s crackers on the tray at one o’clock,” McCoy said. “Eat them.”

“Doctor, do you want the Xenioflox concurrent with the Imcorsinal?” Ria asked.

“No. Administer them two hours apart. That will allow each of them to fully absorb and still give Cadet Kirk time to sleep between doses. I want to up the Xenioflox drops to be qid instead of tid, too.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“Jim, start putting food in your goddamn mouth or a feeding tube is your next stop.”

If he could see, he’d glare at the doctor.

If he could talk without coughing, he’d tell McCoy exactly what he could do with his soup.

But, at the moment, he could do neither of those things and he could tell from Bones’ tone that the older man was done arguing. He lifted the small container to his lips and distracted himself from the smell of the broth with thoughts about the mysterious cloud.


	6. Chapter 6

McCoy made a hasty exit from the lift then immediately made a conscious effort to slow his pace as he walked down the narrow corridor, aware he was still fuming over Pike’s call.

_“Christ,” Pike swore, looking away from the vid screen. “How in the hell did this happen? He’s supposed to be supervised.”_

_McCoy said nothing, waiting for Pike to continue. He knew from Stewart that Pike had already had a lengthy conversation with Garrovick and had more than likely answered the question he was now posing to McCoy._

_Pike’s attention turned back to him. “How bad are his eyes?”_

_Pike had that information, as well, since Stewart had sent Jim’s medical record to the captain – at Pike’s request._

_“There was significant damage to his corneas, as you know, but he’s responding to the treatment.”_

_Pike frowned. “That’s not what the medical report says.”_

_McCoy’s mouth tightened as he bit down on his irritation, but he couldn’t keep it out of his voice completely. “That’s exactly what the medical report states, Captain. The inflammation is decreasing and there’s no sign of permanent damage at this time.”_

_Pike stared at him for a long moment, pinning him with an icy gaze. McCoy had seen that look from the older man before, staring down young cadets who squirmed under his scrutiny. McCoy stared back, refusing to be intimidated when it came to his patient’s care._

_When Pike finally spoke again, his tone was softer. “What’s Jim’s prognosis? And don’t give me the medical playbook of non-committal jargon. I want to know his real odds of seeing again.”_

McCoy shuttered his thoughts on the recent conversation, locking them away. He took a few deep breaths, trying to eliminate the tension from his shoulders and jaw. It wouldn’t do for Jim to sense his turbulent emotions. The kid still had his eyes bandaged, but his intuition was as sharp as ever.

McCoy absently nodded to the crewmen who passed him on his way to his quarters, still preoccupied with the memories of recent events. He’d asked Captain Garrovick if Jim could share his quarters while the young man was recovering. The thought of Jim – blind and still fighting off headaches – returning to his crowded non-com quarters in the lower decks with three oblivious roommates had made McCoy cringe. Garrovick had hesitated at first. It wasn’t standard procedure. He was grateful for Jim’s quick actions, actions that had saved countless lives, but wouldn’t Jim be better in Sickbay, the captain had asked, if he still needed to be monitored?

It had taken McCoy twenty minutes to convince Garrovick that Sickbay, while properly staffed and able to meet the immediate needs of any medical emergency, would do Jim more harm than good and that Jim would rest more comfortably outside the medical facility. He knew Jim’s medical history better than anyone in Sickbay, being his physician of record. In addition, McCoy would be able to supervise Jim’s recovery more easily if the man was in close proximity, in a quiet, safe environment. It had taken Stewart’s support to finally push Garrovick over the line and concede to McCoy’s plan of care.

If only Jim’s agreement had gone as well.

McCoy slowed just outside his cabin door and braced himself for whatever mood he’d find Jim in inside. He’d released Jim from Sickbay two days ago and his mood swings over the past forty-eight hours had been extreme, ranging from docile to explosive. The migraine-like headaches Jim continued to suffer from only made things worse, the pain relieved only by the heaviest of analgesics. When he’d left Jim this morning, the man had been withdrawn and non-communicative. But the nurses who’d checked on him during McCoy’s shift in Sickbay, and administered the eye drops essential to his recovery, had reported his growing agitation and impatience.

Jim never did well convalescing and he resented the hell out of having been moved from his assigned quarters.

_“I can manage on my own, Bones. I’m blind, not an invalid.”_

_“You’re still a patient who requires regular care. It’s my quarters or Sickbay, Jim. Your choice.”_

Taking a final, deep breath and releasing it, he pressed the entry code – and stood frozen on the threshold. The cabin was completely dark with only the light from the corridor spilling into the room.

_Shit._

“Lights,” McCoy ordered, stepping the rest of the way in as the door slid shut behind him. A quick scan of the cabin and his gaze fixed on the figure lying supine on the bed. Boots off and dressed in his regulation daily blacks, Jim’s thin frame all but disappeared on the narrow bed. One hand rested on his forehead just above his bandaged eyes, shocks of honey-colored hair sticking out in every direction, he looked vulnerable and discouraged. McCoy was relieved to see that Jim wasn’t putting pressure on his eyes. They weren’t healing as quickly as McCoy would have liked and the prolonged recovery was eating away at Jim’s confidence in McCoy’s assurances, adding to his fear that he wouldn’t recover, that he’d be permanently blind.

“Jim?” he called out softly and walked toward the bed. “You awake?”

Jim’s hand dropped away from its place on his forehead, landing on the bed with a loud thump.

_That’s a yes._

“You feel all right?” he asked as he stood next to the bed and tentatively touched Jim’s leg. He wondered how long Jim had been laying in the dark. “Head hurt?”

Jim grunted.

Hours earlier the nurses had put drops in Jim’s eyes and carefully rebandaged them, a process that was painful, despite the relief it ultimately brought to his sensitive corneas. But the most recent scan looked good. The inflammation had improved enough that they could now look at beginning regen, although that therapy would likely add to Jim’s discomfort. McCoy noted the slight flush to Jim’s cheeks and frowned. He pulled the small medical tricorder from his belt and ran a quick scan.

Since being admitted to Sickbay, Jim had continued to exhibit a persistent fever. The fever had finally levelled off two days ago – yet another factor that had tipped the scale toward discharge.

The scan revealed a body temp of 38 degrees, and McCoy’s sigh was a mix of annoyance and relief. Despite the flushed cheeks, Jim was only experiencing his typical, low grade fever, not one high enough to raise any red flags. While McCoy would have preferred Jim to be afebrile, the current fever levels were tolerable, all things considered. And not surprising, really, given the significant toxin exposure and amount of medication that Jim’s body had been subjected to since the explosion.

What was concerning was his other vitals.

Jim’s blood-pressure was up. Considerably. Cursing under his breath, McCoy pivoted away from the bed and hurried over to the desk where he’d left his medical kit. It only took him a moment to retrieve a hypospray and locate the two carpules he needed. Double checking the labels, he snapped one in place and tucked the other in his palm before returning to the bed.

“I don’t need anything, Bones,” Jim said owlishly.

Of course, he had heard the telltale sound of the hypo being loaded. When it came to hypos, Jim had the kind of hearing a Vulcan would envy.

“I’ll decide that,” McCoy said quietly. Jim hadn’t moved a muscle. “Your blood pressure is up.”

“It’s called boredom.”

“It’s called pain. Why didn’t you tell the nurses you needed something?” McCoy made a mental note to check the chart and speak to the nurse who had last treated Jim. “A little cooperation would be nice.”

“I’m lying flat on the bed, confined to quarters, resting like you ordered me to do. I can’t read or do any work or have any visitors… what more do you want from me?”

“I want your goddamn blood-pressure to be lower!” He took a moment to take a breath and get control of his temper. Getting in a shouting match with Jim wasn’t going to help the kid’s blood pressure any. “Look, Jim, it may not seem important to you, but something as simple as an elevated blood-pressure can affect treatment and delay your recovery. You’re showing improvement. It’s slow, I know, but—"

“Christ,” Jim swore. He sat up suddenly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. McCoy had to step back to keep from being kicked. Jim’s hands gripped the edge as he faced McCoy, his spine stiff. It took him a moment to find his balance. “Just do it.”

McCoy had learned to be quick with a hypo where Jim was concerned, but this time, McCoy gently put a hand on the right side of Jim’s neck to hold him steady before pressing the hypo to the left carotid artery. A quick flick of his thumb and the hypo instantly released the medication. Jim pulled away just slightly, clenching his teeth against the sting of the medication. The carotid was the fastest way to deliver the medication, but also the most painful.

“One more,” McCoy said, as he ejected the empty carpule and snapped the next in place. “This will help with the pain.” The hypospray hissed again, loud in the silence.

Jim sighed and rubbed the spot against his neck.

“Try to relax. The medication should kick in any time.”

Jim swayed, losing his equilibrium and tumbling toward McCoy who steadied him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Easy. Let’s get you lying back down.” Jim tensed beneath his hands. “Don’t try to fight it,” McCoy ordered, guiding him to lie flat.

“Dizzy,” Jim slurred.

“That’s because I gave you something to lower your blood-pressure. Don’t worry, the dizziness should pass soon.”

Jim didn’t need to know that he’d administered a Benzodiazepine to achieve that goal. The medication would also act as a sedative.

“Fuck,” Jim muttered, but didn’t resist as McCoy steered him toward the pillow.

“Just let the medications do their jobs.”

McCoy walked back to his desk. Ejecting the depleted carpule, he placed the hypospray in his medical kit and retrieved Jim’s eyedrops and fresh dressing materials. He lingered at the desk for a long moment organizing the supplies, giving Jim a little time to feel the effects of the medication, before returning to his side. “Pain better?” he asked, laying a hand on Jim’s shoulder.

Jim grunted.

McCoy surveyed Jim’s lax sprawl. He sighed silently in relief before saying, “I’m gonna take that as a yes. Computer, reduce lights to twenty percent. It’s time for your eyedrops, Jim. I’m going to remove the bandages, so keep your eyes closed.” He cut away the thin strips of gauze wrapping Jim’s head and face, and carefully removed them. The swelling and burns had resolved nicely, leaving the skin flawless. The pain meds and benzodiazepine had kicked in, draining the tension from Jim’s body, and smoothing the lines around his mouth and eyes. Jim looked young, far younger than his twenty-three years.

“Something wrong?” Jim asked, his words slightly slurred.

Mentally chiding himself for worrying Jim unnecessarily, McCoy pulled himself out of his reverie. “No. Everything looks good. The swelling is gone. There’s no redness or scarring.” He traced his thumb on the delicate skin just beneath Jim’s eyes. “Go ahead and open your eyes.”

Jim’s eyes opened slowly. Even in the reduced light Jim’s blue eyes stood out. Despite the damage to his corneas, they looked as brilliant and startling blue as always. The only difference was the lack of emotion that always shone through. He blinked a few times and looked around.

“What do you see?” McCoy closely studied Jim’s eyes, noting that they were a little unfocused.

“Shadows mostly. Especially behind you. Everything’s still blurry.” His gaze settled on McCoy. “I can see you better. Your shape anyway, and colors.”

“Good. Keep looking at me.” McCoy wiggled his fingers off to Jim’s left in his peripheral view. “See any movement anywhere?”

Jim frowned as he concentrated then slowly shook his head. “No.”

So, no peripheral vision yet. Not surprising. Jim’s pupils were reacting to light and his depth perception had returned, which was progress.

“Is something moving?” Jim asked.

McCoy could see Jim was fighting the Benzodiazepine. The lines of tension around his eyes and mouth returned.

“Not anymore. Don’t worry about it. You’re doing great. The inflammation is almost completely resolved, so we can start regen therapy tomorrow. That will bring the most improvement.”

“Then I’ll be able to see?” His voice was quiet, the note of pleading nearly indiscernible.

“It’ll repair the damage to your cornea and encourage your cells’ natural healing. You should see a marked difference right away, but it’ll take more than one session to get the results we need, Jim.”

“But I’ll see, right? Just like before?”

McCoy could hear the fear and uncertainty in his friend’s voice and he wished he could offer words of assurance, but there were too many unknowns to give the prognosis he knew Jim wanted to hear. Instead he said, “You’ll see better than you do now. If your eyes heal as predicted and there’s no complications from the therapy, your sight should return to normal.”

Jim closed his eyes and released a heavy breath. The medication coursing through his bloodstream had tightened its grip and he was losing the fight to stay alert.

McCoy laid a hand to Jim’s chest. “I’m going to put your drops in now.”

Between the muscle relaxant and the pain medication, Jim lay compliant as McCoy administered the drops.

“All done. Can you sit up? I’ll rebandage your eyes.”

Jim made a noncommittal sound and struggled into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, his movements awkward and sluggish.

“Do they have to be bandaged?” Jim put a heavy hand to his temple.

“Yes, they do.” He pulled Jim’s hand away. “Your eyes are sensitive to light and whether you’re trying to or not, your eyes are naturally going to strain to focus when they’re open. We need to avoid that right now.”

Within minutes, Jim’s eyes were bandaged. Just as McCoy finished putting his medical kit in order, the door chime sounded. He set the medical kit on the floor next to the desk and went to answer the door.

It was a yeoman with the dinner trays he’d ordered before leaving Sickbay. Taking the trays, he politely thanked the yeoman for the delivery and let the door slide shut behind her.

“What was at the door?” Jim asked from his position on the bed.

“Just dinner being delivered.” He set the trays on the small desk and regarded Jim with a frown, wondering if was going to be a fight tonight to get Jim to eat or if the Benzodiazepine would make Jim more agreeable. “Time to eat.”

For a long moment, Jim didn’t move from his slumped position on the edge of the bed. He sat unmoving, his head turned in McCoy’s direction, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress.

McCoy studied him in silence.

It was much more difficult to guess what Jim was thinking with his eyes and upper face obscured beneath the fresh, white bandages, but McCoy didn’t need many clues to know that Jim wasn’t thrilled about eating for several reasons. One of them being his embarrassment at struggling to locate the food on the tray without knocking things over and causing a mess. Another was the embarrassment of being unable to see when he accidentally missed his mouth and spilled or dropped food on himself.

But there was something else besides those reasons affecting Jim’s willingness to eat. Something bigger and… darker.

McCoy hadn’t figured it out yet, but he knew that Jim’s relationship with food was complicated. He had managed to add a kilo of weight on Jim over the past few days by carefully and continuously managing his nutrition, but Jim still had a few more kilos to go in order to meet minimum weight goals, and McCoy wasn’t about to let up now.

With a heavy sigh, Jim slid off the bed and stood, yawning and swaying slightly. “What’d you give me? ‘M so tired.”

“I told you, something to lower your blood-pressure. Lethargy is a common side effect. You can rest after you eat.” He didn’t say sleep. Telling Jim he needed to sleep usually resulted in him acting like a stubborn jackass, one who treated the idea of getting horizontal on the bed as a mortal insult. “Tray’s on the desk,” McCoy said, uncovering the tray.

Jim’s steps were dragging as walked to the desk. If McCoy hadn’t seen the bandaged eyes, it would have been impossible to know, just from his movements, that Jim couldn’t see. Jim had spent the first few hours in McCoy’s quarters memorizing the layout. He knew where every piece of furniture was and could easily maneuver around the room without bumping into anything. McCoy was careful not to move anything from where Jim had last positioned it, including any essential items such as the water pitcher.

Jim sniffed at the air. “Chicken. Again.”

“It’s your favorite.” And easy to eat, he thought as he stepped away to busy himself at the small terminal. “And the replicator doesn’t mangle it too badly.”

Jim snorted, took another step, and reached out unerringly for the back of the chair. Finding it exactly where it should be, his fingers latched onto the chair and he dropped heavily into it.

“Chicken at six o’clock, veggies at twelve,” was all McCoy said.

Eating without sight was not yet graceful or easy. Jim had to explore the tray with his fingers, touch every piece of food while his mind recorded its location. Once Jim grabbed a piece of chicken and began to eat, McCoy took a seat to eat his own dinner.

He hoped that Jim would never have to develop that particular talent, that he would regain normal vision and leave the world of the sightless far behind.

“How was your shift today?” Jim asked with a mouthful of food.

“Quiet for the most part.”

“Anything interesting happen?”

McCoy took a bite of broccoli, chewing hard and repressing the memory of Pike’s comm call. Jim didn’t need to hear about that. “Not much. A routine appendectomy right before lunch. Z’Tar was a little jealous when he heard.”

“That guy is scalpel-happy.”

“He’s a third-year surgical resident.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

McCoy snorted. “Between your ears and the nurses’ gossip, I swear you know the staff in Sickbay better than I do.”

“If you didn’t bitch and frown so much, they’d talk with you, too, Bones.” Jim deftly speared a carrot slice. “Or maybe they’re just afraid of your lethal tendency to wield a hypo without warning.”

“Now who’s bitching?” McCoy groused with a grin. “You better watch your smart mouth or I’ll be tempted to turf your care to Z’Tar. As bored as he is, he’d probably find a reason to do an exploratory lap without thinking about it twice.”

Jim mock shivered, his lips quirking on an answering smile. “I guess I’d better be good then.”

“You’re damn right. Now shut up and eat.”

The next few minutes passed in companionable silence, the familiar camaraderie a warm glow in McCoy’s chest. At the Academy, their conversions were easy – classes, sims, Jim’s latest romantic conquest and McCoy’s endless list of improvements to the trauma bay at Starfleet General. But on the ship their talks had been strained and narrow, and truth be told, they were each other’s only friend on the ship. It was nice to enjoy a conversation for a change that didn’t revolve around Jim’s health – which always ended up being a fight. McCoy’s balancing act between friend and physician wasn’t always perfect, and he was a doctor first and foremost.

_“Sickbay to Dr. McCoy.”_

McCoy reached over to hit the comm. “McCoy here.”

_“Davi here. You’re needed in Sickbay, Dr. McCoy.”_

He’d just come off a ten-hour shift and wasn’t on call tonight. “What’s the problem, Davi? Isn’t Z’Tar on duty tonight?”

_“Stewart is requesting you. It’s Ensign Iverson.”_

McCoy scowled. He’d released the young man from Sickbay days ago and had just cleared him to return to duty yesterday. “Is he injured?”

_“He’s dead, sir. He was found on Deck Two in a Jefferies tube. Stewart wants an autopsy. Tonight.”_

McCoy stared at Jim who’d stopped eating and had raised his head, listening intently. In addition to being a trauma surgeon, McCoy was also a board certified pathologist. If Stewart was asking for him then Iverson’s death was either not usual or had occurred under mysterious circumstances. Either way, both he and Jim had worked hard to save the man’s life, and to hear of his sudden and unexpected death was jarring.

“I’m on my way.” He cut the comm and looked at Jim. “I’m sorry, Jim.” He didn’t know how well Jim had known Iverson, but anytime a fellow crewman died, it hit close to home. Each member of the crew relied on the others to keep the ship safe and functioning. They spent months in close quarters working and socializing together. It was impossible not to know everyone on some level.

“Those are the tubes that run along Auxiliary Damage Control,” Jim said.

“Where the explosion occurred?” He didn’t have the ship’s schematics memorized like Jim did. He had enough difficulty navigating from his quarters to Sickbay.

Jim nodded, his mouth tight.

McCoy wondered if Jim was remembering his own rescue. They hadn’t spoken much about it since Jim had first regained consciousness. That had been a fraught and awkward interlude, with a barely coherent Jim claiming he’d seen the mysterious cloud from the planet hovering above the console before becoming comatose again. Whether remembering McCoy’s skepticism or wary of the command team’s reaction, or whether he had simply forgotten it under the maelstrom of his own injuries, Jim had never mentioned the cloud creature again.

If Jim had let go of the belief that an alien cloud had been moving through the ship, it was news to McCoy. Jim Kirk did not let go of things easily, and McCoy had learned early in their friendship not to mistake silence for acquiescence. But now was not the time to ask. He had an autopsy to perform. He stood. “I’m sorry but I have to go, Jim. Finish your dinner and get some rest. I’ll take care of the trays when I get back. I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.”

Jim said nothing as he left for Sickbay.

But the cocked angle of his head said clearly that he was deep in thought.

* * *

Jim startled awake. Despite the length of time his eyes had been bandaged, it still disoriented him to wake in complete darkness. It took a few seconds to orient himself. He realized that something had awoken him, and he immediately sensed another person in the room. Tensing, he called out, “Bones?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” Bones’ voice came from the direction of the bathroom.

Jim heard the tell-tale sound of clothes being removed, and raised up on an elbow, fighting off an ensuing wave of dizziness. Whatever McCoy had given him earlier was still making his body feel heavy and sluggish. Without meaning to, he’d fallen asleep shortly after Bones had left. “What time is it?”

“Oh-three-hundred something. Go back to sleep.”

Bones had said the autopsy would take a few hours. Instead, it had taken over six hours to perform. He wondered why it had taken so long. Ignoring Bones’ suggestion, he sat up, putting a hand behind him on the mattress for support. With the change in position, his head began to throb, setting up a steady, painful pulse behind his eyes. “What happened to Iverson?” Cool air whispered across his skin and he shivered, wanting nothing more than to give in to the lethargy weighing down his body and nestle back beneath the bed covers.

“All of his hemoglobin was gone.” Bones said. His voice reverberated slightly, the effect telling Jim Bones was in the small enclosure of the bathroom. A moment later, he heard the soft sound of running water.

“Hemoglobin?” The pain behind his eyes was intensifying and he fought the urge to rub his fingers along the bandage over his eyes to ease the ache.

“Hemoglobin resides in red blood cells. All of Iverson’s red blood cells were absent, like they had completely evaporated. Which shouldn’t even be possible.”

“What could have caused that?”

“Damned if I know. There were no marks on his body, nothing in the tox screen. Labs showed increases in cellular debris protein by-products but everything else was normal, including his bone marrow. But given where his body was found, it most likely was caused by something in the Auxiliary Damage Control area, although the Engineering supervisor swears there’s no record of anything like this ever happening before.”

Jim’s mind called up the schematics of the Jefferies tubes on deck two. They ran parallel to Auxiliary DC, then cut upwards, linking decks two and three. It was a complex network that, to the untrained and inexperienced eye, made no sense. Only the engineers who regularly worked in the tubes understood how they were laid out, their clever symmetry allowing access to every deck of the ship.

“You talkin’ to yourself? What does symmetry have to do with Iverson?” Bones asked. His voice was near Jim’s right shoulder.

Startled from his thoughts, Jim turned toward Bones’ voice. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinkin’.” Bones’ hand suddenly came to rest on the side of his face. “You feelin’ all right?” Cool fingers slid to press against the side of his neck. “Your pulse is racing. You in pain?”

“It’s all right.” He pushed Bones’ hand away. His head was pounding mercilessly, but he didn’t want Bones to whip out—

“Wait,” he said, his thoughts stumbling to a halt. “Why do you think Iverson’s death was caused by something in Auxiliary DC?”

“Because both of you were in Auxiliary DC when the explosion occurred and afterward you both had a low hemoglobin count. Nothing serious or needing treatment. I didn’t think much of it at the time, beyond wondering if it was possibly a result of poor dietary habits. But those previous hemoglobin levels were on a whole different scale compared to what I discovered tonight while looking for Iverson’s cause of death. And while I think that’s probably not a coincidence, I don’t have any idea of the causation.” The whine of a medical tricorder whirled. “How long did you sleep?”

“You didn’t tell me my hemoglobin was low.”

“It wasn’t really relevant at the time and it was fairly minor considering everything else.” The tricorder stopped whirling. “I’m going to get you something for your pain. Your heartrate and your blood pressure are elevated. You need to lie back down and relax. Get some more sleep.”

It all coalesce in an instant, every piece of information he’d ingested since beaming down to Tycho IV and everything that had been happening on the _Farragut_. Suddenly, he knew what it was – what had killed Iverson. He had to do something. Feeling driven, he tried to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, and only ended up tangling his feet in the blankets.

“Jim—”

“ _It_ killed Ivy, Bones! I know it did!”

_He felt the ephemeral touch on his cheek, just a whisper of something cool and light, but it raised the hair on his arms. He felt it before he saw it. A frisson, like the field effect of engaged dilithium crystals in the warp core. Looking up through the smoke filled air he saw it, hovering just above the burning console, before the billowing cloud of yellow, FLX10 vapor began to burn his eyes…_

There was an intruder on the ship. An alien invader, a predator, causing damage and hunting them, like they were prey.

Bones gripped his arm to hold him in place. “It?”

He pulled out of Bones’ grip, swaying as another wave of dizziness set his head spinning. “The cloud creature. It’s on the ship. I told you. It killed Ivy.”

“Creature?” Bones sounded incredulous. “Since when did some vapor cloud become a creature?”

“It’s hunting us, Bones. That signifies intelligence, intent. I have to tell the Captain.” He slid off the bed and took a step. He fell, the tumbled wad of blankets throwing him off-balance, his right cheek slamming into the hard deck. His head exploded in pain and a sharp cry of pain escaped his gritted teeth.

“Jim, damn it, slow down.” Bones hands were on him, tugging him into a sitting position. “Let me take a look at you. Where do you hurt?”

His head felt like a chisel was being mercilessly driven into his temples. But that didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter. He had to get to the bridge.

He twisted out of Bones’ grip, trying to get enough space to get to his feet. But between not being able to see and Bones’ unyielding grip, he only managed a brief separation before Bones renewed his hold on his arm.

“Jim, stop! Think, damn it! Even if such a creature existed, how could this thing have gotten from the planet to the ship? How could it have gotten onboard without anybody knowing it?”

“It could have beamed onboard with the landing party. Or traveled here in a way unknown to us. It cou—”

“No, Jim! Listen to me. This is crazy talk. Both times you thought you saw this ‘creature’, your mental state was compromised by an underlying medical condition. Your brain saw things that weren’t really there. You can’t trust those kind of memories, kid.”

Fuck this.

“I know what I saw!” Anger, hot and diamond bright, flooded his body. He yanked himself out of Bones’ grip, violently swinging his fist in the direction of Bones’ head, desperate to escape, to warn those in command that they were harboring a dangerous intruder onboard.

His fist made hard contact with what felt like the side of his friend’s head. Bones cursed sharply as Jim scrambled away. He stumbled to his feet, breathing hard. In the struggle, he’d lost any sense of where he was in relation to the layout of the room. Moving away from the sound of Bones’ breathing, he backed into a wall, his confusion increasing. and trying desperately to orientate himself. If Bones was behind him, then the door had to be to his right. Maybe.

He pushed away from the safety of the wall, causing a sharp sting of pain in the middle of his chest. It was getting harder to breath. He heard the high-pitched wheeze begin as his lungs labored for air, a clear warning he was pushing his physical limits and tried to slow down his breathing.

“Jim, listen to me.”

Bones voice was surprisingly calm – and closer than he expected.

“You’re not thinking straight. Come back to the bed and let me give you something for the pain and we’ll talk about this.”

Jim shook his head and grabbed for a handhold on the wall as the room suddenly tipped. “I’m going to the bridge, Bones. The Captain needs to know we’re in danger.” Keeping his hand on the metal wall, he staggered in the opposite direction of Bones’ voice.

“Computer, lock door under access authorization code ABF021B,” Bones said.

Furious, Jim turned back toward Bones’ voice. “Unlock the fucking door!”

“It’s three o’clock in the morning, Jim. The captain is asleep, and you should be, too.” Bones’ voice was maddingly calm. And closer than it had been a moment before.

He curled one hand into a fist and extended his other straight out in warning. “Don’t come any closer, Bones. This thing is on the ship. I know it.” He paused to take a few more breaths. His lungs felt tight, too tight, as if they were closing down. “I _saw_ it. It’s what’s been messing with the vents… it’s the only explanation that fits what’s been happening. Don’t you see? It _followed_ us and now it’s stalking us.”

A short groan escaped him as an intense wave of pain tore through his head. The sound of his rushing blood filled his ears, drowning out any external noises. Desperate and wary, he strained to hear, needing to determine where Bones was, still unsure of where exactly he was in the room’s layout. Bones was quick with a hypo when he needed to be. Jim had encountered that skill one too many times already and didn’t want the doctor anywhere within reach of his neck.

“Okay, you saw it.”

Bones’ voice was to his left. The doctor had put himself between Jim and the door. Sneaky bastard.

“But you’re in no condition right now to see the Captain. Your heart rate is going through the roof, your respiratory functions are compromised, and your pain level is indicating you’ve got a migraine brewing.”

He hadn’t heard Bones use the medical tricorder. He turned slightly toward the sound of Bones’ voice, trying to protect his flank, and pulled slightly away from the wall, swaying. “Let me go. I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t. He was shaking, and he couldn’t get enough air into his aching lungs. And he wanted nothing more than to drive his damn head into the damn hull to stop the ratcheting pain.

“You’re not fine,” Bones said evenly. “You’re in pain. I can help you.”

“Open the fucking door, Bones,” he wheezed. The pain in his eyes flared and he bit back a groan, automatically raising his hands to his eyes, desperate to stop the spiking agony.

Fucking bandages. He wanted to tear them off.

_He wanted to see._

Cold metal bit the side of his neck with a sharp hiss.

_Fuck!_

He reeled back, slamming into the wall, his fists coming up in defense.

“Easy,” Bones said softly. “It’s all right.”

Whatever Bones had injected him with hit him fast. His muscles lost their strength, and a profound lethargy suffused his body. His fists dipped as the room tipped and he struggled to keep them, and his body, upright, his legs wobbling unsteadily.

“Easy,” Bones said again.

He flattened a hand against the hull to steady himself. He swallowed the bitter taste of betrayal. When had Bones stopped believing in him, stopped being his friend?

“W’t ya give me?” It was difficult to make his tongue work. His thoughts dulled, and everything seemed to be far away.

“Just something to calm you down.” Bones’ voice was quiet and steady.

“‘m fine.”

His legs slowly folded beneath him and he slid down the wall. The painful pounding in his head ebbed a little as the dark deepened. A sense of deep fatigue settled into his bones and spread outward.

“I know.” Bones’ hand gently circled Jim’s bicep. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“No, don’ touch me,” he managed to say around his thick tongue, and shook his head. Or he thought he shook his head. He wasn’t sure. Everything seemed upside down and inside out. It took all his energy to keep drawing air into his still wheezing lungs.

“It’s okay.” Bones voice was close, his breath brushing Jim’s cheek. He hooked both of his hands beneath Jim’s arms and hauled him up.

The room spun, and Jim leaned heavily into Bones grasp, his head feeling as if it had been stuffed with cottonwool. What was he doing? He was supposed to go somewhere, wasn’t he? Engineering?

Coherent thought drifted just out of reach.

“That’s right,” Bones soothed. “Just lean on me.”

Jim didn’t know how, but he was moving despite his legs forgetting how to work. If not for Bones’ steady grip, he would have fallen. The next thing he knew, he was being eased down. There was a bed beneath him. His head sank into a pillow. Everything seemed insubstantial and unimportant. His thoughts were floating away and the pain in his head became more distant.

A cool hand rested on the side of his face.

_“It’s okay, Jimmy. He’s gone,” Sam whispered in the darkness._

“Dn’ leave, Sam.”

“I’m right here, Jim.” A thumb caressed his cheek. “I’m not leaving. Just rest. Everything is all right.”


	7. Chapter 7

McCoy stood at the circulation desk and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the pinch of tight muscles.

“You look like you could use a stim,” Ria said, as she bent over the desk and tapped her fingers across the terminal screen.

He eyed her and slowly dropped his hand. “Coffee will do. Stims give me the shakes.”

“I thought you might say that.” She produced a steaming thermos and pushed it toward him, barely interrupting the swift flow of her entries.

He raised a single eyebrow. They’d fallen into a familiar routine over the past few weeks and it bothered him a little that she’d picked up on his preferences so quickly. He hadn’t been aware he was that predictable. Still, he wasn’t one to turn down coffee. Even as shitty as the coffee on the _Farragut_ was. He reluctantly accepted the thermos. “Thanks, Ria.”

Finishing her entries with a flourish, she straightened and looked at him. “Rough night, huh?”

That didn’t even begin to cover it. Between the autopsy and Jim’s attempted breakout, he hadn’t slept. Though the combination of the psychotropic and sedative he’d given Jim had produced the desired results and his friend had slept heavily – and was still sleeping when he’d left an hour ago - he’d spent the rest of the night trying to figure out what to do next. He’d kept the administration of the psychotropic out of Jim’s medical record, wanting to prevent any more red flags from becoming part of his permanent record, but if it happened again, if Jim couldn’t control this fixation he’d developed about some creature, he would have to report it. It was dangerous administering drugs and not charting them, especially to a patient with Jim’s allergy history.

For now, though, that was the least of his concerns.

Jim was going to be beyond pissed when he woke and would likely demand to speak to Garrovick. At best, his forced sedation had bought McCoy some time. Not that Jim had left him much choice, from a medical standpoint. Jim’s blood pressure had been dangerously high, and the kid had been about to do his eyes serious harm – undoing all the healing he’d managed in the past two days and further delaying the critical regen work he desperately needed.

McCoy was first and foremost a doctor and the well-being of his patient took precedence over friendship. But his decision hadn’t been an easy one, and he knew he’d seriously damaged the trust he’d worked so hard to build with Jim over the past eighteen months, perhaps irrevocably.

He mentally cringed at the memory of Jim pressed against the wall, his fists up, body tense. Jim, cornered and afraid, had been willing to hit him to defend himself, and although McCoy knew Jim’s threatening stance had been more a frantic attempt to free himself than any real intent to assault McCoy, it still hurt.

God damn, Boyce, and everyone else for putting him in this position. His relationship with Jim was becoming far too complicated, making it increasingly difficult to separate his role as physician from his role as friend. At some point, someway, they were going to have to find a way to manage those conflicting roles and find a better balance between the duties and responsibilities weighing on the two of them.

But for now, McCoy’s role on the _Farragut_ was crystal clear: medical officer first, friend second.

Jim didn’t appreciate it now, but the decisions he’d made were for Jim’s own good. Last night, it had been obvious to McCoy that Jim was ready to sacrifice everything – his health, his vison, his career – to get to Garrovick. He knew Jim could be stubborn when he thought he was right, but this belief in a cloud-like alien lifeform had taken on a whole new meaning. Like Ahab’s quest for the great white whale, Jim’s stubbornness had morphed into something bordering on an obsession. 

McCoy had never seen any signs of this type of extreme behavior in the year and a half he’d known Jim. The kid could be single-minded when pursuing a goal, oblivious to the need to eat and sleep, but McCoy was in the dark when it came to identifying what had triggered such fanatical behavior.

Jim, sure as hell, wasn’t talking. 

Christ, he might never willingly talk to McCoy again.

“What’s on today’s schedule?” he asked, pushing his concerns aside for the moment, ignoring her question about his time off-shift. He took a cautious sip of the coffee and grimaced. Still shitty, unfortunately.

“Follow-up on Ensign Tarek’s ankle. Vaccination boosters for about ten crewmembers and Jim Kirk’s corneal regen session, which is scheduled to begin in twenty minutes.”

He set the coffee down, despite the need for the caffeine boost. It was too godawful to drink on an empty stomach. “Push Kirk’s regen to this afternoon. I want his vitals to be a bit more stable before we start his therapy. And I want him a meal in him, as well. When’s Tarek due to arrive for his check?”

“He’s here now, waiting in bed four, and chomping at the bit to get back into the Jefferies tubes. Although why anyone would be eager to dive back into those tight spaces is beyond me. Must be an engineering thing.” She handed him Tarek’s chart. “Also, Stewart wants to speak to you about Iverson’s autopsy.”

Terrific.

As he approached the waiting man, McCoy could see that the ensign was sitting on the biobed with his good leg dangling over the edge, swinging it like an impatient child. Tarek stopped the motion and smiled when he caught sight of McCoy. “Hey, Doc.”

“Ensign. How are you doing?” He set the chart down and examined the man’s ankle.

“Great. Ankle feels good.”

“Really?” McCoy eyed the joint in question with skepticism, noting that it was still fairly swollen. When he gently took the ankle in his hands and manipulated the joint, Tarek flinched and reflexively attempted to pull the limb out of his hands. “You haven’t been crawling around any Jefferies tubes lately, have you, Ensign?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you been using the ice packs and elevating it as prescribed?”

“As best I can, sir.”

He eyed the young man critically for a long moment, then grabbed the chart again to review the scans and notes from PT.

“How’s Jim?” Tarek asked. “I haven’t seen him since I was in Sickbay.”

McCoy looked up from the chart to meet Tarek’s dark, inquiring eyes. He eyed the red-shirted man warily, feeling a sudden protectiveness for his friend. Was Tarek asking as a concerned fellow crew member, or had he heard some piece of juicy gossip he wanted to verify? There was enough speculative talk feeding the rumor mill that McCoy couldn’t keep up with it all. Not that he wanted to; he hated that kind of thing, having been subjected to plenty of nasty, petty whispers and hearsay ‘facts’ when his marriage fell apart. Turning his attention back to the chart, he said, “Recovering.”

“Maybe I could stop by and see him. You know, just to say hello?”

“He needs his rest. He’ll be back on duty in a few days.” He hoped.

“Oh, okay. Good. That’s great news. He’s gonna see okay again, then?” Tarek asked hesitantly.

McCoy scowled, looking at Tarek and pinning him with a cool, penetrating gaze that stated without spoken words ‘that’s not any of your fucking business’. It was impossible to keep secrets on a ship, but the regs required that medical confidentiality be applied to all patients, and McCoy intended to enforce the rules as best as he could. Jim was entitled to some privacy, after all he’d been through. “That’s a confidential matter, Ensign. I’m afraid I can’t divulge any specifics about Kirk’s medical condition.”

Tarek paled. “I wasn’t – I mean – I really hope he’s going to be okay, sir. Jim’s good people, you know. We miss him in Engineering.”

Yeah, he knew. Jim’s charisma and intelligence drew people to him like honey bees to peach blossoms.

McCoy softened. “I’m sure he misses all of you, too. But right now, you need to focus on your own recovery, Ensign. This ankle is still swollen, which tells me you haven’t been resting it as I ordered.”

He spent the next ten minutes lecturing Tarek on the consequences of not following prescribed medical treatment and trying to push his recovery faster than his body could tolerate, a subject with which he was well-acquainted thanks to Jim. He ended with a sentence or two on respecting others privacy, in the hopes of squelching some of the rumors floating around. He left the young man properly chastised on all accounts, walking away with a sense of satisfaction at the thought that someone was finally paying proper attention to their doctor’s orders – something he hadn’t felt in too long, given all that had happened.

After a consult with PT – where he ordered the tech supervising Tarek’s therapy to keep a closer eye on the young man – and the tedious process of vaccinating five crewmembers – two of whom also asked after Jim – he reported to Stewart’s office. A lengthy conversation with the exacting CMO was followed by an emergency meeting with Garrovick. The lengthy expenditure of time, however, resulted in little more than they had known at 0300 this morning when he’d finished the autopsy. He had deliberately left out any mention of Jim’s theory and focused instead on the facts, leaning on the frail hope that Jim would soon come to his senses and abandon his intention to find the captain, before he completely ruined his future in Starfleet.

_“You don’t know what killed Iverson?” Garrovick asked, scowling at him from the other side of Stewart’s office. “Aren’t pathologists supposed to be able to determine a cause of death?”_

_“I know_ what _killed him, just not why, Captain. The cause of Iverson’s death was cardiac arrest caused by a total absence of hemoglobin in the blood. But that is not a finding documented anywhere in medical literature,” he responded, using formal medical-speak to emphasize that ‘yeah, I’m a fucking pathologist alright’ in case his acerbic tone of voice failed to emphasize his point. “And there’s nothing in use on this ship, that I’m aware of, that could have systemically removed all the hemoglobin in his red blood cells. There weren’t even any traces of heme fragments left in his blood.”_

_“If you’re right, that means something other than his engineering duties caused him to die.” Garrovick thought for a moment. “Could it be a new disease of some kind? Has anyone else on the ship reported to Sickbay with similar symptoms?”_

_“No,” Stewart replied. “But unless it was a significant depletion, like we found with Iverson, we wouldn’t necessarily be aware of crew with altered hemoglobin levels. We’d only catch any minor abnormalities on a routine exam.” The older man paused, looking thoughtful. “Kirk had a low hemoglobin count, didn’t he, Leonard? When he was admitted after the FLX10 leak in Engineering?”_

_Leonard stared at his CMO, acutely aware that Garrovick was doing the same._

_“Yes, after the explosion in Auxiliary DC, his labs did show a reduction in hemoglobin levels,” McCoy said slowly._

_“Why didn’t you report it? Could it be significant?” Garrovick’s questions sounded more like accusations than a request for clarification._

_“I did, sir. I reported the findings to Dr. Stewart and noted Kirk’s lab results in his medical record,” he said, trying not to bristle. “His blood count wasn’t significantly low and could have been the result of any number of things, including the cadet’s diet.”_

_Garrovick looked at Stewart._

_“It was minor, Stephen,” Stewart confirmed. “Nothing that would have drawn a red flag under normal conditions, especially given Kirk’s other injuries.”_

_Garrovick turned back to McCoy. “And he’s been fine since?”_

_McCoy took a firm hold on his temper, knowing his lack of sleep and worry about Jim’s mental status threatened his control of his tongue. He didn’t like his medical expertise being questioned. Especially by a Starship Captain who knew jack-all about medicine. “His CBC is now normal. Toxin levels are almost zero. He’s running a slight fever, but that could easily be attributed to the medications he’s on and the exposure to the toxin.”_

_“Nothing else?”_

_“He’s not fully recovered,” he said shortly. “His body is working hard to heal itself and he’s still experiencing the after-effects of exposure to FLX10. He sustained damage to both his lungs and to his corneas, and they’re still not back to normal.”_

_Garrovick frowned. “Was Iverson exposed to the FLX10?”_

_“Yes, but his exposure was not as significant as Kirk’s,” Stewart said. “The concussion Iverson experienced rendered him unconscious. As a result, he was flat on the deck, the area lowest in concentration of smoke and toxic fumes.” Stewart grimaced. “He was fortunate in that aspect. Unlike Kirk, who had to wade through heavier smoke and the continuing release of FLX10 to reach him.”_

_“Not that fortunate,” McCoy interjected. “Iverson was assigned monitoring duties on the Environmental and Damage Control console that exploded. Kirk and the other two crew members on the Alpha shift team for that department were initially absent from the area, having been assigned to chase down the vent problems in the Jefferies tubes nearby.”_

_Garrovick studied McCoy for a long moment before he spoke. “I want a full physical on Kirk. He worked closely with Iverson according to the logs.”_

_McCoy blinked at the order, stunned. “He’s had a full physical. Twice.”_

_“Now he’s going to have three. Stewart will assist.”_

_What the fuck?_

_“I want it done today, gentlemen. Consider this a Priority Level One order. I’ll expect your report as soon as it’s finished.”_

McCoy left Stewart’s office simmering with anger. He hadn’t needed anyone to ‘assist’ him with a physical since he was in med school. Did Garrovick think he was some incompetent hack who didn’t know how to properly assess a patient? Or was there another reason he wanted McCoy to be supervised by the ship’s CMO? Whatever his rationale, bottom line, Garrovick didn’t trust his medical judgment. He had said as much to Stewart after Garrovick had left.

_“He knows you have a close relationship with Kirk. If he’s concerned your judgement might be impaired, Leonard, show him he’s wrong. Another exam does no harm to Kirk and the results will vindicate your previous findings. Captain Garrovick is just doing his duty; he can’t afford to be less than scrupulous in his search for Iverson’s cause of death.”_

_Impaired, my ass, he thought, Stewart’s words cold comfort._

Muttering under his breath, he entered the main bay, intending to report off and grab an overdue lunch in the mess hall. Instead, he came to an abrupt halt as he saw Jim being led to a biobed. McCoy approached the circulation desk with a frown, keeping an eye on Jim as the nurse got him settled.

“He’s early,” McCoy growled.

“Actually,” Davi said, turning to face him, “He’s late. We had trouble waking him and getting him to eat enough to call it a meal.”

McCoy swallowed the wave of guilt that rose up in his throat. “How did you manage to get him to eat?” he asked as he took Jim’s chart from Davi.

“We told him if he didn’t eat he couldn’t leave his quarters and there would be no regen. He ate less than we were hoping he would, only about half his meal, but we didn’t want to push him too hard. Vitals look good though. He walked here on his own.” Davi eyed him “He asked for you and we told him your meeting was running long. He seemed really anxious to talk to you.”

_I bet._

McCoy scanned Jim’s chart. “Did he complain of a headache or other pains?”

“Complain? No. He was pretty quiet, though.”

_Stupid question._ He sighed and looked over at the bay Jim was occupying. Jim was lying quietly on the thick cushions of the biobed with his bandaged head slightly elevated, monitors active.

“He’s still a little groggy,” Davi said. “The sedative you administered must have hit him hard.”

McCoy nodded and walked briskly toward the biobed, his progress neatly intercepted by Stewart halfway across the floor. Stewart said nothing as they halted next to the biobed, letting McCoy take the lead.

“Good to see you, Jim. How are you feeling?” McCoy asked, deliberating keeping his voice light and even, the epitome of professionalism.

Jim turned his head toward McCoy. The light displaying his pulse flashed faster, indicating an increase in heartrate. “You fucking sedated me without my permission. How do you think I feel, asshole?”

Stewart raised his eyebrows at the outburst and looked at McCoy.

“Rested, I hope, since that’s why I administered the sedative,” he said flatly, ignoring Stewart’s inquisitive gaze. “Dr. Stewart is here with me.”

“Nice to see you up and around, young man,” Stewart said in his most congenial tone, smoothly taking his cue. “Dr. McCoy tells me you’re making great progress.”

Jim snorted and turned his head away from both of them, clearly displaying his contempt. “Sure, whatever you say, _doctor_.”

Davi entered the small space and began pulling out instruments from the narrow drawers that lined the wall near the bed.

“What’s that sound?” Jim asked, turning toward the soft, chinking noises and lifting his head off the cushioned back of the bed, nostrils flaring like a hound scenting the wind. “What’s happening?”

“It’s just Nurse Davi, Jim,” McCoy said, instinctively putting a hand on Jim’s leg. “He’s getting out a few things we need for your treatment.”

Jim jerked his leg away, trying to dislodge McCoy’s hand. The gesture was a clear rejection of the comfort McCoy was trying to offer with his touch. “Don’t touch me.”

McCoy grimaced, hurt welling up immediately. They hadn’t spoken since last night and McCoy could see that Jim was still carrying a grudge and wanted nothing to do with him. The scorn in his voice revealed the anger and resentment he was feeling over what he perceived as a betrayal of their friendship.

McCoy hoped the younger man wasn’t going to make a scene with Stewart present. If Garrovick had suspicions about whether or not he could perform his medical duties professionally where Jim was involved, the last thing he wanted was to have Stewart bear witness to a personal argument with Jim. McCoy wanted to keep last night’s fiasco under wraps for Jim’s protection, as well as his own. But he wasn’t going to take any chances with the infamous Kirk temper, so he removed his hand and stood back from the bed, hoping Stewart wouldn’t push for further explanations. Let him think Jim was upset over his continuing medical problems and visual disability.

Stewart nodded to Davi. “We want a full chem panel with liver and kidney functions. CBC and differential. And a urinalysis.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” Davi asked curiously, as he opened the small drawers and fished out the instruments he needed to obtain the bloodwork, and set them on the tray next to the bed.

“I want to rule out a low red cell count. I want a total body scan, too, Davi, once you finish the lab draws.”

“Aren’t I having the regen?” Jim sounded uncertain and worried, his clenched fists and tense body posture betraying his unease. He might be blind, but his ears were working just fine.

“Yes, that’s the plan,” Stewart replied before McCoy could offer an explanation. “But first we’re going to conduct a full physical.”

“Why? What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Jim,” McCoy interjected hastily. His fingers itched to touch, to give Jim the physical contact that had always comforted and calmed the young man in the past. But Jim had rejected that option, and McCoy wasn’t going to push his luck. “It’s just procedure. We want a good, complete baseline before we begin the regen therapy.”

McCoy could see that his explanation didn’t totally satisfy Jim, who remained guarded and tense. The bandages covered a good portion of Jim’s youthful face, but they didn’t hide the tension around his mouth as Davi carefully took his arm.

“I’m going to draw some blood now. Hold still, please.”

On average, a complete physical took roughly an hour. This time, it took every bit of that amount of time to get the lab results on the blood and urine samples, complete the scans, and conduct the comparisons with previous results. Stewart was using the proverbial fine-tooth comb to review the findings. By the time Stewart finally nodded his approval, Jim was exhausted and irritable.

McCoy laid a cautious hand on Jim’s thigh, feeling the tremors of fatigue and trepidation the ordeal had caused. Through it all, Jim had remained unnaturally silent, grunting an acknowledgement when Davi or Stewart informed him of what was happening, and patently ignoring McCoy. By the time they finished, and Stewart departed to brief the captain, McCoy’s nerves were raw, as well.

“We’re all done, Jim,” McCoy assured him, lifting his hand from Jim’s leg. The overhead monitor chimed a moment later, demanding attention. McCoy glanced up at the display, and silently cursed. Jim’s blood pressure was up, higher than he wanted to see it prior to beginning the delicate regen therapy.

“We alone?” Jim asked, his voice strained.

“Yeah. It’s just us. I’m going to lower the head of the bed a little. Try to relax and rest while I get things ready for the regen therapy.” He turned up the bed’s temperature, hoping the warmth would offer the comfort he ached to give Jim himself. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

As McCoy covered Jim with a warm blanket, Jim reached out blindly and caught the sleeve of his tunic.

“Why did I really get the physical?” Jim asked, his voice strained. “You guys sounded like you were going over my body systems with a microscope. Am I dying, or something?”

McCoy contemplated his response. Jim had been exposed to enough medical care in his short Starfleet career to know that a full and complete physical workup during recovery from an injury wasn’t standard procedure. The last time Jim had had a physical that thorough was when he first joined the Academy. Jim had every right to know why the physical had been ordered, but was telling him in his best interest?

“Jesus, just spit it out.”

McCoy released a deep breath. “Garrovick ordered it.”

“Why? What’s wrong? Is it serious?” His chest heaved. “Am I sick? Sick with something bad?”

“No. No, Jim! You’re not sick. You’re healing a little more slowly from the FLX10 exposure than we’d like, but that’s not a big concern.”

“Then why the full workup? What’s Garrovick looking for?”

The monitor chimed again, the alarm and the bright yellow indicator lights a warning that Jim’s stress level was affecting his vitals.

“Jim, I’m going to answer all your questions, I promise,” he said, keeping his voice deliberate and soothing. Habit had him moving his hand to rest on Jim’s chest. “But I need you to stay calm and just breathe. We can’t do the regen treatment on your corneas if your blood pressure is too high and we need to start the therapy soon if we want the best results.” McCoy hesitated. “I can give you something to—"

“No!” Jim’s refusal was vehement, but he took a few deep slow breaths immediately.

“That’s good,” McCoy encouraged, feeling the muscles beneath his hand grow less tense. He waited patiently, saying nothing more, until, finally, the yellow lights on the monitor turned green. “How are your eyes feeling? Any pain right now?”

Pause.

“A little.”

McCoy reached for a pre-loaded hypo and checked the medication and dosage. “I’m going to give you something for the pain,” he said and touched the side of Jim’s neck to steady him. ‘It’ll help you hold still during the therapy. You’re more likely to be restless, if you’re in pain.”

“What is it?” Jim asked, his tense voice filled with suspicion and uncertainty. The cords in his neck were taut and he strained away from the hypo.

McCoy cursed silently. The trust that he had worked so hard to build with Jim had ceased to exist. Evaporated in one night. And it was all his own fault.

“It’s just a pain reliever, Jim. Nothing more, I promise. Okay?”

After a long moment, Jim nodded, his hands fisted in the blanket.

With burning eyes, McCoy slowly and gently administered the drug, then set the hypo aside. “Better?”

Jim sighed. “Yeah. What’s Garrovick looking for, Bones?”

He couldn’t delay any longer. “He thinks there might be a connection between your low hemoglobin count and Iverson’s lack of it, although Dr. Stewart and I sure don’t see one.”

“I told you. It’s the cloud, it has to be. I knew it was dangerous as soon as I saw it.”

“Garrovick didn’t mention anything about a cloud. We’re eliminating environmental and disease vectors, but nothing specific has been identified yet as the cause of Iverson’s death,” he said firmly.

Jim froze. “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

“Tell him what, Jim? That a mysterious cloud creature is on the ship and attacking the crew?”

“Yes.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

McCoy looked around the area to make sure they were alone before he spoke in a hushed voice. “Because it sounds fucking insane, that’s why not.”

“Iverson is dead. Who’s next? We can’t just do nothing, Bones.”

“Fine. If it’s a cloud creature, where is it? How do we search for it? _Think_ , Jim. You don’t have enough information to go to Garrovick and get him to take you seriously.”

“He doesn’t need everything tied up in a pretty pink ribbon, Bones. He’s the captain, it’s his job to evaluate the data the crew gives him, however incomplete. He would want to know, he _needs_ to know, if there’s a possibility the ship is in danger. And he would have known last night if you hadn’t sedated me.”

“I wouldn’t have had to sedate you if you’d calmed down and talked to me like a rational person. If you’d listened to reason.”

“You had no right to knock me out without my permission,” Jim said with quiet intensity.

McCoy winced. Jim’s words cut deep. The quandary of their relationship was making it impossible for him to be sure he was doing the right thing. Iverson’s chill body, wax-white beneath the harsh lights of the autopsy table flashed through his mind. It could have so easily been Jim if he’d been on duty instead of being confined to quarters.

“I have every right, both as your physician and as a medical officer on this ship, to keep you safe and healthy.” He sighed heavily. “And as your friend… I only want the best for you.”

Jim said nothing.

“Listen, Jim,” he said slowly. “The ship’s been scanned. The planet’s been scanned. The landing party’s been examined. There’s nothing on this ship that doesn’t belong here.”

Jim bit his lip and for a moment, McCoy thought he was going to agree.

“You’re wrong, Bones,” he said quietly. “And Garrovick needs to know. Whether he believes me or not. It’s the right thing to do, trust me.”

McCoy could see that Jim wasn’t going to let this go. One way or another, Jim Kirk would find a way to get Garrovick’s attention. “Okay. Okay, Jim. We’ll go talk to Garrovick after the regen therapy.”

As if on cue, Ria entered the small space, wheeling the regenerator ahead of her. “Are we ready to begin, gentlemen?”

McCoy looked down at Jim then back up at her. “We’re ready.”

* * *

Stewart stared down at the four dead crewmembers sprawled on the deck at the far end of the starboard nacelle. The hum of the engines vibrated against every inch of his body, making it feel like tiny insects were crawling just beneath his skin. This part of the ship was typically deserted of crew. Only maintenance had access to the area, and only then, when absolutely necessary.

“You found them just like this?” Stewart asked the ensign without looking up from the tangle of bodies.

“Yes, sir,” the ensign said, his distressed face pale beneath smears of grease. “They were late for report and I offered to go find them before I went off-shift.”

The bodies were bone-white, and Stewart didn’t need a medical tricorder to confirm that all their red blood-cells were gone. Their profound pallor was identical to Iverson’s unnatural hue.

Stewart turned to the ensign. “Get to Sickbay. I want medical to check you over.”

The ensign nodded. “Yes, sir.” Giving the dead crew one last, troubled look, he saluted smartly, turned and left.

Stewart was about to pull out his communicator when Garrovick entered the area with four armed guards.

“Cordon this area off,” Garrovick ordered the guards. “No one in here except medical.”

“Yes, sir.”

Garrovick joined Stewart, silently studying the dead crew. His captain’s mask dropped abruptly, and sorrow for the lost crew was nakedly visible on his face. “What the hell is this, Walter? What’s killing my crew?”

“I wish I knew, Stephen.”

Garrovick continued to study the area. “They don’t look like they put up a fight, and they didn’t try to communicate with anyone, so they apparently didn’t sense anything wrong.”

“Or something overpowered them so quickly they didn’t have a chance to fight or call for help.”

Neither scenario was comforting.

Garrovick’s mouth drew into a tight line. “Get McCoy up here.”

* * *

It was after 1900 hours when McCoy quietly entered his quarters. Ria had reported that Jim had fallen asleep immediately after they’d settled him into the bunk. Between the taxing, lengthy regeneration process requiring Jim to remain hypervigilant in controlling any head or body movement, and a second dose of pain medication administered toward the end of the procedure still circulating in his bloodstream, it wasn’t surprising Jim had passed out once he was horizontal. He only hoped the kid had stayed asleep.

Fortunately, when Stewart had summoned him to the remote area of the ship – the fucking nacelles of all places – Jim’s regeneration therapy had been completed and he was sleeping soundly on a biobed. By the time the bodies had been brought to Sickbay and McCoy had begun the autopsies, Jim had been moved back to rest in their quarters. It was unlikely Jim had heard about the deaths. And McCoy wanted to keep it that way.

At least for tonight. He was bone-tired and wanted nothing more than a shot of bourbon and to sleep for eight hours straight.

The door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss. The room was dimly lit and silent. Either Ria or Jim had turned up the ambient temperature and the room felt stifling hot. He was still sweaty and overly warm from wearing the protective, quarantine-level gear to perform four autopsies despite the walk from Sickbay to his quarters in the cool air of the ship’s corridors.

It took McCoy a moment to see that Jim was sleeping, burrowed snugly beneath a pile of blankets, despite the heat. He stepped closer to the bed and saw that Jim’s face was pressed into the softness of his pillow.

McCoy frowned, torn.

He wanted Jim to rest but he didn’t want Jim to put any pressure on his eyes. The bandages only provided a minimal level of protection. Though the regeneration had gone well, and McCoy was cautiously optimistic about the results, Jim still needed to be extremely careful not to place any physical stress on his eyes.

Gently, he turned Jim’s head, tucking the pillow back behind his temple, away from his eyes. He could feel the heat of a fever radiating from Jim’s flesh, and took a moment to let his hand linger on the sleeping man’s flushed cheek before he turned and walked into the bathroom. Closing the door, he leaned back against it, a solid mass of aches from his shoulders to the soles of his feet.

Christ, he was getting tired of doing autopsies.

He’d gotten a degree in pathology last year at Starfleet’s request and hadn’t realized how much he’d be using those skills. While no one knew the dangers of space better than he did, he’d naively thought his pathology knowledge would be used to diagnose unknown infections in crew members or be of use when responding to planetary pandemics. He’d made the erroneous assumption that dead crew members would be returned to Earth and someone else would do their autopsies before their body was released to the next-of-kin.

He’d been an idiot.

McCoy pushed away from the door and slowly undressed, feeling the fatigue of the day settle into his bones. Stepping into the cramped shower cubicle, he triggered the controls and stood stoically beneath the cleansing pulsations of the sonic shower.

Just one more thing he hated about ship life – no water to shower.

At least in his dorm room the shower had real water. There was something soothing about the feel of hot water on his skin as it washed away the emotions and grime of the day. It was a ritual he looked forward to after his medical shifts and now keenly missed. The torrents of water rushing over his skin relaxed him and he liked inhaling the fragrant steam that rose around him.

He yearned for that experience now, desperate to get the smell of the morgue out of his nose.

But sonics were scentless. Dry. Efficient.

Sonics cleaned and disinfected, but water…washed everything away, both physically and psychologically.

He never lingered in the sonics. What was the point?

Just another reason to avoid being posted on a ship.

He exited the narrow stall dry, cleansed and completely unrefreshed.

Changing into his Starfleet issued sleeping bottoms and a short-sleeved t-shirt, McCoy tossed his sweat-soaked clothes in the refresher and quietly stepped out into the bedroom. Jim was still asleep in the exact position he’d left him in, so McCoy stepped into the tiny office area to sit and relax while he had a drink.

Silently opening his bottle of bourbon, he poured two fingers of the amber liquid into a glass. He’d just taken his first sip when the door chimed, startling him and nearly causing him to drop the tumbler.

Scowling, he jumped up to answer the unexpected summons. He looked quickly at Jim, concerned the chime had woken him, but was relieved to see the man hadn’t even twitched and was still soundly asleep. _This better be important_ , he thought with irritation. Walking swiftly to the door, he pressed the release.

He couldn’t keep the stunned look off his face as he stared eye-to-eye with Garrovick.

“Captain?” he asked, finally reclaiming his wits.

“Sorry to disturb you at this late hour, Doctor,” Garrovick said, sharp, blue eyes sweeping McCoy from tousled hair to bare feet, before landing on the glass of bourbon in his hand.

McCoy felt his cheeks grow hot.

“I was just about to turn in. Was there something in my report, sir, that you need clarified?” 

It didn’t seem likely. He’d submitted his autopsy reports less than an hour ago and the results were exactly the same as his findings on Iverson – a total absence of hemoglobin in the blood. Cause unknown.

Steely blue eyes flickered with some strong emotion, then hardened. “I apologize, Doctor. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. May I come in?”

It sounded more like an order than a request.

McCoy was acutely aware that he was barefoot, dressed in nothing but his sleeping gear and had a tumbler of unauthorized, against-the-regs bourbon in his hand.

Not the best of circumstances to be discovered in by the captain of your ship.

Worse, he wasn’t bunking alone.

McCoy glanced back at the sleeping area. He hadn’t slept in over thirty-six hours and he desperately wanted to crawl beneath the sheets on his bunk. He stifled the impulse to deny Garrovick’s request for entry, acutely aware of how impossible such a decision was – if Garrovick even allowed him to refuse. He was beyond exhausted, or he wouldn’t be thinking such crazy thoughts.

When the ship’s captain rang an officer’s door after hours, it couldn’t mean anything good. 

Garrovick tilted his head, waiting.

While it wasn’t an ideal time for a visit, in reality McCoy had no choice.

He stepped aside without a word.

Garrovick took a few steps into the darkened room and McCoy smoothly steered him into the small office area, as far away from where Jim was sleeping as he could get in the small room.

“Jim – Cadet Kirk is asleep,” McCoy explained. “He had his first corneal regeneration treatment today and it exhausted him. He needs his rest and I’d like to keep him from being disturbed by our conversation.”

Garrovick nodded and craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Jim around the narrow partition. “How is he doing?”

“As expected. The regeneration therapy takes a toll physically but Jim tolerated the procedure well. The initial corneal response was excellent.”

McCoy suspected Garrovick had read Jim’s full medical report and already had the answers to the questions he was asking. Why was he here? What did he really want? He scrutinized the older man, noting the way Garrovick was staring intensely at Jim. 

“I need to speak to him, Doctor. Right away. There’s no time to lose.”

McCoy scowled. “Captain—”

“We saw it, Doctor,” Garrovick said hoarsely, cutting across his response. “This cloud creature Kirk’s been talking about.”

McCoy stared at him, shocked. “ _On the ship_?”

Garrovick nodded. “It killed the four crew we found dead in the starboard Nacelle. The attack was captured on the engineering vids.” He shook his head, looking tired and worn. “It was incredibly fast. A copy of the vids are in each of the men’s medical files for your review, but there’s no doubt in my mind that the creature caused their deaths.”

Shocked, McCoy stared at Garrovick’s haggard face. An icy coldness settled in McCoy’s gut as he realized Jim had been right all along. 

The kid hadn’t been lying or hallucinating. Jim had endured humiliation, doubt and demotion – and risked permanent black marks on his record. But he’d never wavered. Not in his beliefs or in his duty to the ship.

Fuck, he thought bitterly, and pushed away the guilty feel of his betrayal to focus on Garrovick and the immediate problem.

“What did it do?” McCoy asked. How in the hell could a cloud kill?

“Just hovered in midair for a few seconds and then… it was on top of them before they could react. It’s fast, McCoy, unbelievably fast. Eerily silent. Ensign Patel had time to mutter “What the hell?” before it completely enveloped their bodies but that was all. The men staggered for a step or two, batting at it blindly, and dropped. It happened so quickly. You could see them go chalk-white in seconds on the vid. They didn’t have a chance.”

“How in the hell does a cloud do that? How does it absorb a person’s red-blood cells? And why?”

“I don’t know, but I’m hoping Kirk can tell us something about the creature. He’s the only one who’s seen it in the flesh and survived.”

McCoy glanced over his shoulder at Jim before returning his attention back to Garrovick. “Captain, Jim needs his sleep in order to recover. He doesn’t know that more crew have died. And… he can’t see. I don’t know how much help he’s going to be.”

“I understand, Doctor McCoy, and I’d applaud your caution under normal circumstances, friend or not, but this thing has killed five of my crew and I don’t want to add to its tally. Anything Kirk can tell us could help.”

He hesitated, torn between the conflicting duties of doctor and ship’s officer. Now that there was visual confirmation that the cloud creature actually existed, what else could Jim offer?

The physician in him wanted to protect Jim. Jim still had to undergo another regen session before he had a chance of regaining full vision. He needed to conserve his strength, not participate in a stressful debrief.

But the officer in him knew that Garrovick was right. Jim was a member of the crew, the same as he was, and their first, most important duty was to the safety of the ship and crew.

“Anything Kirk can tell us might save lives,” Garrovick pressed.

_“He’s the captain, it’s his job to evaluate the data the crew gives him, however incomplete. He would want to know, he needs to know, if there’s a possibility the ship is in danger.”_

Jim’s words of only a few hours ago came back to haunt him. Should he have let Jim talk to Garrovick? Had his decision to keep Jim safe caused the deaths of the four men? Would Garrovick even have listened before there was proof?

His mind spun with questions and guilty uncertainty. He recognized the trap he’d fallen into, one he hadn’t been in since his first year of residency – the ‘what-if’ trap. What if he had prescribed earlier or differently? What if he’d scanned twice, instead of once? What if he’d acted sooner? What if he’d waited a little longer? Constantly replaying surgeries in his mind to make the outcome perfect. No one got out of that trap with their sanity intact. He knew better.

No, he wasn’t going to start second-guessing himself now. It never changed anything.

Taking a deep breath, he nodded in agreement and led Garrovick into the sleeping area. Jim had turned on his back, but he was sleeping soundly, cheeks flushed, his respirations even and slow, despite the obvious fever he was sporting.

Still loath to wake him, knowing how hard the medical team had worked to get him to rest, McCoy put a reluctant hand on Jim’s shoulder and shook him gently. “Jim.”

Jim made a small sound of protest.

“Jim, wake up.” McCoy gripped Kirk’s shoulder a little tighter as he shook him more firmly. “Jim, it’s McCoy. You need to wake up. The captain needs to talk to you.”

Jim stirred, his limbs twitching.

“Come on, Jim. Wake up.” He captured one of Jim’s hands in his own, wanting to give Jim something tangible to hang onto. Without sight, he only had the sound of McCoy’s voice and his touch to orient himself by – and waking from sedation had always been difficult for Jim.

Jim’s hand was all hot skin and thin bones. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “You need to wake up now.”

“What?” Jim asked groggily, reflexively returning his grip.

“It’s me, Jim. McCoy. I need you to wake up.”

Jim groaned, and stretched. “Where am I? What time is it?”

“In my quarters. It’s nearly twenty hundred hours.” He studied Jim’s bandaged face for a long minute. “You awake now?”

Jim let go of his hand with a heavy sigh. “Yeah. Where’s the blanket? It’s cold in here.”

He itched to grab his tricorder so he could check Jim’s temperature. “Let me help you sit up,” he said, carefully easing the younger man into a sitting position. Fever was apt to make Jim’s muscles and joints sore, and he didn’t want to add to his discomfort. “You want something to drink?”

Jim licked his dry lips and put a hand to his head. “Head hurts, Bones,” he mumbled. “Everything aches. And I’m thirsty.”

“I’ll give you something for that in a minute.” McCoy grabbed the insulated cup of water on the bedside table and put it in Jim’s right hand. “Here. Drink some of this.”

Garrovick shifted his weight behind McCoy but had the good sense to remain silent. 

Jim took a sip of the liquid and made a face. “What is this?”

“Enhanced water. Finish it if you can. I’m pretty sure you’ve got a serious fever cooking and I don’t want you to get too dehydrated.” He kept a hand on Jim’s shoulder, waiting for him to finish the liquid in the cup. The enhanced water was rich in metabolites and would help replenish the elements depleted by the regen therapy. Plus, it would help clear Jim’s foggy head and help him focus.

When Jim was done drinking, he held the glass out for McCoy to take. “What time is it?” he asked again, sounding clearer.

“Almost twenty hundred hours,” he said again, hoping the information penetrated this time. He studied Jim closely, reaching for the pre-loaded hypospray. “I’m gonna give you some pain medication. It’ll help your headache.”

Jim rubbed his temple. “Why’d you wake me?”

“That’s on me, son,” Garrovick said.

The unexpected sound of another voice startled Jim. His head snapped up and his spine straightened, as he pushed himself higher in the bed. “Who’s there? Bones, who’s there?”

McCoy glared at the captain as he gripped Jim’s tense shoulder with his free hand. What the hell? Didn’t Garrovick understand how vulnerable Jim felt at being awoken from a deep sleep, while blind and hurting? Jim was only a second-year cadet. One who, under the present circumstances, was bound to feel a need to impress his commanding officer with his performance. And Jim, more than anyone, would be resentful of appearing vulnerable.

Before the captain could reply, McCoy spoke. “Take it easy, Jim. It’s Captain Garrovick. He needs to speak to you. Are you feeling up to talking with him?”

“Of course.” Jim sat up a little straighter upon hearing Garrovick’s name, trying his best to present himself properly to the senior officer. “How can I help you, sir?”

Garrovick stepped forward, moving to McCoy’s side. “Four more engineering crew died this afternoon.”

Subtlety definitely wasn’t Garrovick’s strong suit.

McCoy kept a hand on Jim’s shoulder as he silently pressed the hypospray home.

“When?” Jim asked hoarsely, barely reacting to the injection.

Jim remained still and tense, only his breathing – fast and shallow – revealing his agitation as Garrovick filled him in on the details. When the captain finished, Jim said, “That sounds like what I saw on the planet, sir, and in engineering.”

“Was the creature’s appearance the same both times?” Garrovick asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Was this the same creature in both places or do we have more than one?”

“Unclear, sir,” Jim replied promptly, and McCoy realized anew how much thought Jim had already given to the creature. “Both times it moved so quickly, I didn’t get a thorough look at it.”

“How did it strike you, son? Did it display intelligence? Were its actions threatening or malevolent?”

Jim hesitated. “I… I didn’t trust it, sir. Things felt… off on the planet. Unnatural. And in engineering… It hovered above the consol. Like it was looking at me. Evaluating the situation. I felt it touch me briefly before the FLX10 fumes chased it away. It felt like an icy mist.” Jim shuddered. “I can’t prove it yet, but I think it caused the explosion in the console.”

Garrovick cursed, his tone harsh.

McCoy stared at Garrovick. “How in the hell did it move from the planet to the ship without detection? The transporters are designed to protect the ship from any unknown organisms boarding.”

“The scanners only detect what we program them to look for, Bones,” Jim said. “We didn’t find anything on the scanners while we were on the planet either, but the cloud was still there because I saw it.”

“Good point, Kirk.” Garrovick sighed. “I wish to God I knew how we’re supposed to find it. We’ve scanned the ship a dozen times and we’ve found nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Maybe it left the ship,” McCoy said. “Went back to the planet or out into space…”

“No,” Garrovick said, shaking his head. “It’s here. It killed four men just hours ago, which means it’s been here for days. It’s just proving to be very good at evading our scanners.”

McCoy scowled, and his mouth twisted into a wry grimace. “That’s comforting,” he drawled sarcastically. “This thing could be hiding anywhere.”

“You’re right,” Jim said, turning slightly toward McCoy. “It’s hiding from our scanners, like an undetectable ghost, waiting for the right opportunity to claim its next victim or victims.”

Garrovick looked at McCoy with alarm. “What do you mean, Mr. Kirk?”

“It doesn’t attack indiscriminately or constantly. It hides itself. It surprises and overcomes its victims. Its behavior is predatory, sir.”

“And we’re its prey.” McCoy speculated. “Or rather our hemoglobin is, since that’s completely drained from the bodies.”

“That puts every red-blooded lifeform on this ship in danger,” Garrovick concluded. “How in the hell is it evading our scanners?”

“By changing its composition to blend in with its environment,” Jim said.

“Like the vampire bats on Cyrton V,” Garrovick exclaimed.

“Exactly, sir.”

_Christ! This was just fucking great,_ McCoy thought. He was trapped on a ship with an invisible creature that fed on their very life blood. And the planet was likely no safer. Not that the captain would ever order the crew to abandon the ship while it was still functional.

He turned to Garrovick. “How in the hell are we supposed to protect ourselves from something we can’t see coming?”

“I’ll put the ship on Yellow Alert,” Garrovick said. “And arm every crewmember with phasers. It’s had the element of surprise, but that’s over. Now we know what we’re looking for and a good idea of what to expect when we see it. No crewmembers will be allowed to be alone at any time. From now on we work, eat and sleep in pairs, at a minimum. We’ll partner non-red-blood cell humanoids with red-blooded humanoids. The next time it strikes, we’ll be ready.” He straightened and gave McCoy a stern look. “We’ll break orbit and move away from the planet. If it’s still on the ship, maybe that will force it back to its native habitat.”

“We should shut the ventilation system down, sir,” Jim said. “Until we’re sure it’s off the ship.”

“Why?”

“Doing an emergency shut-down will hard close the vent baffles, walling off the shafts. I think the cloud creature has been travelling through them, exploring the ship. That’ why EC has been so busy trying to close vents that keep opening when they’re supposed to be closed. Even if it can move through solid materials like it did with the EC console, it might slow it down, force it to use energy to move around in that fashion.” He frowned. “Unfortunately, doing so might also shorten the interval between attacks if it gets hungry from exertion, but the increased risk might be worth it, if we can force it into the open and kill it with phasers.”

“Don’t we need ventilation?” McCoy said, not able to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. “You know, to breathe.”

“I didn’t say shut off the oxygen, Bones. Just the vents.”

Garrovick nodded, giving Jim a look tinged with approval and admiration. “It would get stuffy in some areas, but we’d have more than enough oxygen to breath. Kirk, you may might be on to something. All the crew who have been attacked and died have been in isolated areas of the ship close to the environmental systems.”

“But we can’t count on that continuing,” Jim said. “It’s been on the ship for days, sir. If it’s an intelligent lifeform, it has to know its way around the ship by now. The two previous attacks could just have been its way of testing us. To see if we were capable of fighting back or harming it.”

“Or it has limitations we haven’t identified yet,” Garrovick countered. He let out a pent up breath. “Thank you, Mr. Kirk, you’ve been very helpful. Now get some rest.”

“I can go to engineering, sir,” Jim said, sliding off the bed. He attempted to stand at attention, but his knees buckled.

McCoy grabbed his arm. “Sit down, before you fall down, Jim. I don’t want you damaging your eyes.”

Jim attempted to free himself from McCoy’s grasp. “I can help in engineering, sir. I’ve got a pretty good handle on the environmental systems.”

Garrovick smiled. “I’m not the only one impressed with your depth of knowledge in engineering systems. But further action on your part is unnecessary, son. You’ve already performed above and beyond, which I’ve noted in your service record. Now you need to listen to your doctor and get some rest. Once your eyes have recovered, we’ll look forward to having you back on the bridge.”

“Thank you, sir, but I know my way through the vents and tubes, and—”

“That’s an order, Mr. Kirk, not a suggestion,” Garrovick said firmly, despite his smile. “There’s a time to step up and a time to stand down. Once you’re cleared for duty, we’ll take your help. Not before. As you were, gentleman,” Garrovick said, nodding to McCoy, and left.

Jim jerked out of McCoy’s grasp, swaying unsteadily, and touched the bandages around his eyes. “Take them off, Bones. I need to see.”

“ _No_. Absolutely not, Jim. We can’t take a look at your eyes until morning, at the earliest. You have to wait at least twelve hours before any exposure to light unless you want to risk being permanently blind.”

That settled Jim. He dropped his hand from his bandaged eyes and let out a soft, frustrated growl.

“You need to rest, Jim and so do I. There’s nothing either of us can do tonight.” McCoy guided Jim backwards to the edge of the bunk. “You need to sleep because you’re scheduled for another round of regen tomorrow afternoon. Now, sit. I want to give run a quick tricorder scan and give you an antipyretic for your fever.”

For a long moment, Jim didn’t move, and McCoy was afraid there was going to be another epic battle pitting the orders of Doctor McCoy against the wishes of Cadet Kirk. He was relieved when, instead, Jim allowed him to ease him back into bed and administer the hypo without his usual resistance. Laying the hypo aside, McCoy triggered the tricorder and waited for the scan to complete.

38.7C. Pulse 108. BP 134/70. The medication would help the fever and sleep would lower the stress on Jim’s circulatory system. McCoy entered a reminder to recheck Jim’s temperature in the morning, not sure he would remember to do so otherwise, as sleep deprived as he currently was. If Jim’s temperature remained this elevated, he was going to need a trip to Sickbay to rule out a brewing infection.

McCoy tucked the blanket around Jim’s shoulders with gentle hands. “Try not to worry, Jim. Garrovick is the captain and he knows how to handle a crisis with the ship.” He hesitated, acutely conscious of Jim’s tense body. At this rate, he’d be awake all night, fretting, if McCoy didn’t do something to ease his mind.

“He was proud of you, Jim. I wish you could have seen it for yourself, but it was real. And I’m proud of you, too, kid. I’m so damn sorry I didn’t believe you about the creature or help you talk to the captain sooner. I was wrong, Jim. You were right, and I was wrong.” McCoy patted Jim’s shoulder and turned away, intent on retrieving his abandoned drink and finding his own bunk.

After he finished off his bourbon, he climbed into his own bed, glad that Jim hadn’t said ‘I told you so’ or ‘go to hell’ at the end of his little speech.

But if Jim had, damnit, he would have deserved it.

Instead, he forced himself to be content with the silence.

* * *

It moved from just outside the hull where it had rested in the cold of space, sated and content and safe, until hunger stirred again. Transitioning through the thick metal walls, it emerged into the warmth of the ship’s interior to begin its hunt.

It had been so long, a countless passage of time, since it had fed so deeply. Not since the last of the flesh-bags on the planet had been consumed in delirious, rapacious need. And now, after that first, cautious taste of this new prey, with the reassuring and delicious taste of hot iron flooding its very being, it had fed and fed and fed, sating its hunger at last. Renewed and energized, it was alive again, as it had not been in eons.

It forgot its former shadow-self.

Forgot what it was to be hungry.

There was only the driving need to hunt and the building desire for the sweet taste of iron.

It moved through the corridors silently, engulfing unsuspecting prey and draining them.

Uncaring that behind it, it left bodies, motionless and devoid of life.

When it was done, satisfied and gorged with the singing sweetness of iron, it retreated. 

And it waited.


	8. Chapter 8

McCoy woke instantly to the sound of the comm’s soft chime and hit the toggle automatically before his eyes were even fully open, acutely aware of Jim sleeping nearby.

“McCoy.”

“You’re needed in the captain’s quarters immediately,” the unfamiliar voice said.

He frowned, lifting his head from the pillow and twisting his neck at a painful angle to assure himself Jim was still sleeping. He turned back to the comm. “What’s the problem? Is he hurt?”

“Please report to the captain’s quarters ASAP, doctor.”

The comm disconnected and he stared into the darkness of his quarters. The chronometer displayed the time: 0513. Shit. He rubbed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to stretch his stiff muscles before slipping out of bed. He had ordered the lights to 5% before turning in, so there was just enough light in the room to make out the shadowy interior and find the fresh uniform he’d laid out.

As quietly as he could, he dressed and left the cabin, grabbing his medical kit on the way out. No sense in not being prepared, although Garrovick would have summoned Stewart if he’d been in need of medical assistance.

Gamma was ending, and the ship’s lighting was still dimmed in non-essential areas to simulate the early morning hours and keep the crew’s circadian rhythms intact. It wasn’t a totally successful strategy. Difficulty sleeping was the number one health complaint on a ship. Between the lack of fresh air, replicated food, and confined spaces, it was no wonder many of the crew had sleep issues. His own sleep had been impacted in the past few weeks. Being one of three doctors on a ship complement of four hundred certainly didn’t help in the sleep area when crises erupted.

The corridors were eerily empty once he exited the turbo lift. He could hear the sound of his boot heels clicking on the hard deck as he made his way to the Captain’s quarters. Senior officers were only a short distance from the lift, a tactical practicality he supposed came in handy when you were in a hurry to get to the bridge. As he approached the gentle curve in the corridor, his steps slowed.

Four armed guards stood in the corridor just outside the captain’s quarters. Their posture was tense, and they looked grim-faced and stricken. McCoy felt his stomach clench at the ominous tableau as he approached the open door.

The guards automatically stepped aside, and, taking a deep breath, he entered, trying to step quietly. Two more guards stood inside, rigidly at attention, their faces expressionless. Neither looked at him as he crossed the threshold. Alvarez stood in the sleeping area, next to the bed, and turned as he entered, acknowledging his presence. The First Officer’s lips were compressed into a thin line, as if he were holding in some strong emotion. His eyes glistened, and he swallowed hard, as he gestured toward the man in the bed. McCoy’s gaze shifted from the stoic First Officer to the unmoving figure on the bed, and he knew that he wouldn’t be needing his medical kit.

Garrovick lay sprawled across the large bed, still in uniform, his boots off and a PADD clutched in his hand. It looked like he’d been resting for the evening, but not yet retired. McCoy’s gaze settled on the man’s face. It showed the same chalk-white complexion he’d seen on the other crewmembers who’d been on his autopsy table. Garrovick’s mouth was partially open as if frozen on a silent gasp, and his eyelids were at half-mast, revealing dull, unseeing eyes.

Alvarez nodded slightly to McCoy. He moved a short step back, as if he were reluctant to leave the captain’s side.

McCoy walked to the edge of the wide bed and stared down at Garrovick, silently absorbing details and impressions, as he’d done with the other victims.

Years in the medical profession had taught him that the line between life and death was a fragile one.

How many times had he heard a family member recount a story of how “but he had just gone out to get a coffee” or “she was laughing and joking an hour ago.” A burst aneurysm or sudden myocardial infarction could happen at any time, without any warning. Not to mention sudden trauma of all kinds, from falls to deliberately inflicted violence. Or his own personal nightmare favorites of transporter malfunctions, alien bacteria and shuttle accidents.

Even with modern-day, advanced medical treatments, the human body could only sustain so much damage before death occurred and became irreversible. A surgeon could push unit after unit of blood, repair or replace multiple organs, and administer drugs by the dozens, but more often than not, in severe trauma situations, the body eventually surrendered to the traumatic insult. It was usually only the young and healthy who had a chance of surviving major injuries.

And when death claimed another victim despite his best efforts, he’d had to go and face the same, soul-draining scenario – the hopeful, pleading expressions of waiting family and friends, their gazes clinging desperately to his face, yearning for some sign of good news, when he had none, and was about to devastate their lives.

There were never any words spoken by him that had made the loss bearable then, and there were none he could offer to Alvarez now. Starfleet deep-space crew knew how narrow that line was better than he did.

“Is he like the others?” Alvarez asked, only his voice, thick with grief, betraying his true feelings.

McCoy nodded. There was only one thing that killed like this on the ship. He pressed his fingers to Garrovick’s neck. The flesh was cool and firm, which told him Garrovick had been dead more than a few hours.

“How long ago did he die?” Alvarez asked, as if reading his mind.

He shook his head. “I’d need my tricorder to tell you to the minute, but rigor has set in and his body temperature has dropped. On a guess, I’d say four or five hours, since rigor mortis is only partial, not complete. He was in my quarters at twenty-two hundred, so sometime after that.”

Alvarez nodded once. “I spoke to him around zero-thirty. He commed me about setting up a meeting at zero-eight-hundred with all department heads. The attack must have happened shortly after that.”

McCoy experienced a sudden sinking feeling. He’d been ordered to the Captain’s quarters, but it wasn’t a medical emergency. If he was here instead of Stewart, that could only mean one thing. “Where’s Doctor Stewart?”

A muscle along Alvarez’s jaw jumped. “In Sickbay. He’s critical. Dr. Z’Tar is going to need your help as soon as we finish here because he’s treading on the edge of panic in my opinion.”

“Not surprising. He’s a new, inexperienced resident.”

Alvarez nodded. “Stewart was asleep when it hit. Didn’t even wrinkle the covers. He wouldn’t even still be alive but once we found Captain Garrovick, we started checking all the rooms nearby. He was the only survivor on this stretch of the corridor. Everyone else was… beyond help.”

Dead, he meant.

Christ. They were dying in their sleep now. Helpless. Unaware. “How many others?”

“Forty-four. That we know of. We’re still doing a comprehensive search of the ship.”

McCoy was stunned. Forty-four dead. “Damn that thing to hell and back.”

“Yeah. From the pattern of deaths so far, we think it moved from Deck Six down to Four. I don’t know how it chose its targets, but it was damn effective when it did attack.” Alvarez straightened his spine, visibly pulling on the mantle of captain, now that Garrovick was dead. “You’re acting CMO now, Dr. McCoy. We’ll move the dead into the storage bay, secure them, and lower the temperature by briefly opening the cargo door. We don’t have time for autopsies or ceremonies, so we’ll just keep the bodies cold until we’re back on Earth. Keeping the crew alive is the top priority now.”

McCoy nodded. The ship was in survival mode. They would grieve later, when there was time and safety. “What about the rest of the crew?”

Alvarez was half-way to the door. “We’re arming the ship. Get your medical team to security so that they can be issued phasers once you’ve organized Sickbay. Every crewmember is to be armed, even medical personnel.” The two security guards saluted as Alvarez passed them. “We’ll let you know if we find any more survivors. Good luck, Doctor.”

Terrific. A predatory, cunning cloud organism that killed in seconds and traveled wherever it wanted without detection, and without rhyme or reason. And, to make the situation even more complicated, a ship-wide security alert to work under and around. Phasers and laser scalpels didn’t mix. In the back of his mind, he heard the echo of Boyce’s words.

_You may even enjoy yourself._

Like _hell_. He was going to kill Boyce if they made it back to Earth alive. Slowly.

“Stand guard until medical comes for the body,” Alvarez said from the doorway, giving Garrovick a final salute before leaving.

The two honor guards inside the room were silent statues. Their gazes never strayed to the bed, but McCoy had no doubt they would be quick to act to protect the captain’s dignity, deceased or not, if he did something untoward, like Egyptian guards protecting a royal sarcophagus. McCoy looked at Garrovick. There was nothing more he could do except make sure the Captain’s body was handled with respect and ensure his medical team was ready for whatever happened next.

He was the CMO now, at least until Stewart recovered. If he recovered. The health of the crew was now his responsibility. Like Alvarez, he would grieve later. Duty came first.

The next few hours passed quickly. McCoy gathered the entire medical staff together and broke the news about Garrovick, which, thanks to the effective rumor-mill and the unique position the medical staff was in to know the intimate details of anything involving the crew’s health, was no surprise. He’d seen the truth on their faces the moment he’d entered Sickbay.

It was one thing to have crew die, but when the captain died – the man each crew member had sworn to protect with their very lives – such a dire event often left fear and uncertainty in its wake. The captain’s death reminded crew that they were mortal, and their failure to keep him safe diminished them as a whole. The sense of failure was profound. Some would never get over it.

McCoy didn’t allow himself to think about Garrovick’s tragic demise beyond acknowledging the waste. Lessons learned the hard way in surgery, when the patient was in critical condition and every second counted, had taught him that rather than brood over what was past, it was best to put your head down and focus on the problem needing immediate attention.

And then the next. And the next after that.

He did that now.

His first priority was to ascertain Stewart’s current medical condition. Once he had confirmed Garrovick’s death to the medical personnel in Sickbay and instructed the on-duty team members to inventory blood and transfusion supplies in case more survivors arrived as a result of the search, he immediately sought out the small ICU room where Z’Tar was monitoring Stewart.

“What’s his status?” he asked, striding into the room.

Z’Tar flinched at the brisk sound of his voice. “Critical but stable.”

“What’s his ‘crit? How many units has he had so far? How much organ damage has he experienced?”

Z’Tar looked affronted. “Dr. McCoy, I think I’m handling Dr. Stewart’s case just fine. There’s no need—”

“Can it, doctor. I’m acting CMO now and I want a complete report on your patient’s status. Answer my questions.”

“Dr. Stewart’s hematocrit is 4.9, up from 3.9, and he’s on his second unit. I’m administering oxygen by face mask and I haven’t had a chance to read the scan yet but—”

McCoy cursed out loud, causing Z’Tar to flinch again.

“Jesus Christ, man, you’re killing him. Slowly, I’ll admit, but you’re killing him all the same.” He thumbed the comm unit on the wall. “Ria, we need two blood pumps ASAP. I want another two units of packed cells in here right away and I’m about to intubate Dr. Stewart.”

“Yes, doctor. I’ll be right there.”

McCoy snatched up an intubation kit, and opened it, before approaching the head of the bed.

“Z’Tar, get the proper adaptor on the oxygen hose and be ready to connect.”

Ria sailed through the door just as he slipped the endotracheal tube in place. Z’Tar managed to connect the oxygen tubing without too much fumbling and McCoy deftly secured the endo tube, while barking orders.

‘Ria, get a pump on the unit of blood that’s already hanging and infuse it as quickly as possible. “I’m going to start another central line, so I’ll need a sterile field in place. Z’Tar increase the oxygen to 100% and I want those scan results now. This man needs at least two more units of packed cells infused stat.”

The tiny room was a frenzy of activity for the next five minutes.

“Chest scan shows the new IV line is patent, Dr. McCoy, and the underlying lung tissue is undisturbed. Two more units going up now,” Ria confirmed.

Z’Tar handed over Stewart’s chart with shaking hands.

McCoy quickly read the results, and grimaced. Damage to all the major organs, especially the kidneys. Systemic muscle damage. Surprisingly, Stewart’s brain had sustained the least damage.

“Huh,” McCoy grunted, perplexed by the finding.

“Something wrong, Doctor,” Z’Tar enquired nervously.

“His brain is surprisingly intact. I wasn’t expecting that.”

Ria gave him a grim smile. “Davi responded to the call for a medic to Dr. Stewart’s quarters. He commed us right away and told us to get some blood ready.”

“Why did Dr. Stewart survive and the others who were attacked didn’t?” Z’Tar asked.

“Who the hell knows? Maybe the damn creature was almost sated and only used him for a snack instead of a meal.”

Z’Tar looked over his shoulder, as if talking about the cloud creature would cause it to appear. “Someone needs to find it and kill it. I don’t want to die.”

“I’ll make sure Captain Alvarez gets your message,” McCoy said sarcastically. “Ria, get a urinary catheter in place. I’m going to give Dr. Stewart 25 mgs of Falidadone to preserve as much organ function as possible. If his urine output is less than 30cc for the next hour, call me. Once he’s got four units of blood onboard, draw a pediatric tube of blood and have the lab run his ‘crit ASAP. Call me with the results.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Z’Tar, continue to monitor him closely. I want you to check his oxygen sats every fifteen minutes. Let me know immediately if he develops any arrythmias or trouble breathing.”

“If you insist but I think you’re letting becoming acting CMO go to your head, Dr. McCoy.”

“I do insist, and if you give me any more attitude, I’ll _insist_ on putting a reprimand in your record for insubordination.” He ignored Z’Tar’s wounded look. “Now, I need to go and oversee the removal and storage of the deceased. My comm will be active, so you can reach me at any time. You can start the process of having security arm the staff with phasers, but I want all weapons to have their safeties on. Any questions about my orders before I go?”

“No, Doctor,” Ria replied.

“No,” Z’Tar said, turning his back in a huff.

McCoy raised an eyebrow but didn’t call the man on it. He didn’t have the time or inclination to deal with a case of injured pride.

McCoy, and the assigned nurse and two techs, spent the next ninety minutes dealing with the bodies being brought to the cargo hold. Even without autopsies, each crewmember had to be properly identified and processed before their remains were placed into body bags for storage. It was a daunting and grim task, but they were well-trained and they did the job with admirable professionalism.

The harsh reality of what it meant to be a part of the medical crew onboard a ship was becoming clearer for McCoy with each body they handled. His team worked efficiently but silently, with none of the gallows humor they typically used to lighten tense medical situations. The dead were their own, known members of the ship’s family. Their silence was their way of offering their respect.

It was one thing, he realized, to treat patients that came into Starfleet General – patients that, with luck, he likely would never see again – but it was another to treat people with whom you shared meals and experiences, people you saw every day, people who, over time, became friends and colleagues.

It was the kind of situation he’d never been in before and it was testing his medical training in ways he hadn’t expected.

_“Don’t get too close to your patients, Leonard,” Dinel Eulan, his first-year attending cautioned. “You can’t be an effective physician if you become emotionally compromised by a possible negative outcome. Don’t care too much. It’s safer in the long run.”_

He’d always thought Eulan was a pompous asshole, but now...

Once the last of the dead crew were carefully and respectfully placed in the storage bay, McCoy and the team made their way back to Sickbay, leaving the engineering techs to flood the room with the icy air of space. The alert lights in the corridors continued to flash yellow, casting a jaundiced glow that wore on his nerves. Bad enough that armed guards patrolled and that he was required to wear a phaser. The flashing lights seemed to enhance the tension he was feeling, strigging his already frayed nerves even tighter.

As he entered Sickbay, he saw several nurses gathered at the circulation desk. All medical personnel had been ordered to report to Sickbay for lockdown and the normally empty room was crowded with nurses and medics moving about or congregating in smaller groups. Despite the unusual assembly, the team appeared at ease. They were in standby mode, a situation that was all too routine to them, and they were, for the most part, too saavy to waste energy living on their nerves.

They turned as one to him as he entered, scrutinizing him carefully, and he nodded, the gesture acknowledging their concern and reassuring them that he was fine. Scanning the bay, he took in the scene on the far side of the room near bed eight.

Jim sat on the edge of the biobed, straight shouldered and upright, his posture screaming ‘hands off’ in seven different languages. The bandaging on his eyes was still intact and he seemed to be in a heated argument with Z’Tar who was apparently trying to get Jim to lie down. Jim was having none of it, fending off Z’Tar’s attempts to manhandle him with impressively accurate defensive moves.

The bio monitors for the bed had been turned on and McCoy could see several yellow flashing lights on the monitor, indicating Jim’s vitals were outside normal ranges. McCoy scowled, his patience long gone. What the hell was Z’Tar doing?

He had ordered two of the medics to bring Jim to Sickbay before he’d left to care for the dead, knowing Jim was alone in his quarters, which put him at risk. He had known that the younger man would resist being confined to Sickbay, despite Alvarez’s order and it being a temporary safety measure, but Z’Tar seemed to be making a stressful situation worse.

McCoy wanted Jim calm and resting, not upset and on edge. As he watched, Z’Tar threw his hands up in the air with a gesture of disgusted surrender and walked away, leaving Jim alone and clearly agitated. McCoy waited for Z’Tar to make his way to the desk before asking, “What was that about?”

Z’Tar was still fuming. “Cadet Kirk passed out in the middle of Sickbay when he arrived from his quarters. Stubborn fool refused to be moved on a stretcher, so he walked the entire way here and his blood pressure bottomed out. He’s probably just overly fatigued and dehydrated, but he won’t let me examine him.”

McCoy felt his temper rise. “So, you just walked away from a patient in need of medical care because he’s being difficult?”

Z’Tar responded with a hot glare and a dismissive shrug. “He’s refusing medical treatment. He wants—”

“I don’t give a damn about what he wants,” McCoy ground out. “You’re a Starfleet doctor, damnit, and you need to act like one, instead of a pouting brat. Not only do you outrank him but it’s your job to make sure he’s not hurt or in need of treatment. Do you think every patient is going to be cooperative and appreciative? You’re going to be a piss-poor doctor if you can’t establish a trust relationship with your patients.”

Z’Tar’s face turned red and he looked away from McCoy, his expression indignant as he protested, “He wouldn’t even let me touch him. How am I supposed to treat him if I don’t know what’s wrong?”

“You _examine_ him, damn it. Begin with the readouts from the biobed. Run a scan. Keep him informed each step of the way. But you don’t walk away from a patient. Ever. Are we clear?”

“Clear.”

“Give me his chart,” he demanded, holding out his hand.

Z’Tar handed over the chart and wisely held his tongue. McCoy quickly controlled his irritation as he walked across the bay to Jim. To his credit, the younger man was still on the bed and hadn’t yet made an attempt to escape, which worried McCoy. Was Jim feeling worse than Z’Tar reported?

“Bones,” Jim said flatly, as he drew near.

McCoy stuttered to a halt, taken aback. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Your aftershave is pretty distinctive. You’re the only one on this ship who smells like sandalwood and citrus. And you have a confident, no-nonsense rhythm to your stride. Everyone else in here creeps around like cat burglars casing a joint.”

McCoy felt his cheeks flush at Jim’s description. The kid was just too damn perceptive. Nothing got past him. “What’s this about you refusing to accept medical treatment from Dr. Z’Tar?”

“That man is an idiot, Bones. He thinks being a physician makes him smarter than other people. Typical doctor’s attitude, in my experience.” There was no anger in Jim’s voice, just a statement of fact.

“He said you fainted.”

“He exaggerated. I got a little lightheaded for a minute, and everyone panicked, but it was nothing. I let one of your nurses draw some blood so they’d stop yammering at me, but I refuse to let that jerk touch me. I told him I would wait for you.”

“Uh huh.” He looked up at the monitor and scowled, before scanning the chart. Jim’s glucose and electrolytes were significantly on the low side, likely the cause of his lightheadedness. He stepped into Jim’s space and carefully touched his arm. “Lie down, kid. I want to take a look at you.”

With a sigh, Jim leaned back, swinging his legs up onto the bed. “Why am I here, Bones? You said we weren’t going to do a treatment until tomorrow.” Jim’s lips twisted. “Or I guess that would be later today, now, to be more accurate. According to the two techs you sent to roust me out of my bunk, it was 0600. I’m not sure why you felt like I needed to be hustled to Sickbay so early.”

Shit. In his rush to prepare Sickbay for lockdown and proceed with processing the dead crew, he’d overlooked informing Jim of Garrovick’s death. How much had Jim picked up from listening to the chatter going on around him in Sickbay?

“There was another attack last night, Jim.”

Jim was silent for a moment before he spoke. “I know, Bones. I heard.” He sighed. “I’m sorry about Captain Garrovick. A good captain wants to die in the chair, not his bunk.”

Of course he’d already heard the bad news. Jim had keen ears. Medical knew everything that went on in the ship. There was no hiding forty-five dead crew or the death of the ship’s captain being one of them.

“I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to tell you myself, Jim. I got so busy covering for Stewart, I forgot that you’d be out of the communications loop while confined to quarters.” McCoy rubbed his stubbled jaw, realizing belatedly that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d shaved. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.” He couldn’t interpret Jim’s reaction to his apology with the bandages covering his eyes.

“Stewart, too?” Jim asked, his jaw set.

“Yeah. He’s critical but we’re treating him aggressively and hoping for the best.”

“The cloud creature attacked again, and it was worse this time, wasn’t it? Not just Captain Garrovick, but others are dead, too, aren’t they? A lot, I’m guessing, from all the whispering going on. That’s why we’re in lockdown. That’s why all the medical staff is in Sickbay.” Christ, the kid was sharp. Jim had accurately deduced their current situation despite being blind.

McCoy focused on the betraying clench of Jim’s hands. His calm assessment was misleading; he was just hiding his stress better than most. “Forty-four, so far, not including Garrovick. Captain Alvarez has ordered a complete search of the ship and is following Garrovick’s last orders. No one is to be on their own, which is why I had you moved here. I acting CMO until Stewart recovers and I have to stay in Sickbay for the time being, so that means you do, too.” He motioned for a nurse. “When was the last time you ate?”

“I don’t know. Last night, maybe? I lose track of time with my eyes covered. Is Alvarez moving the ship out of orbit?”

“I have no idea.” He looked down at the chart. “Chart says your last meal was yesterday at lunch.”

“Why did you ask me if you already knew the answer?” Jim asked, tight-lipped with annoyance.

“Why did you lie to me about it? It was a simple question and I didn’t know the answer until I confirmed your response against your chart.”

Nurse Cyn hovered at the foot of the bed, apparently wary of being drawn into the argument, a leery expression on her face. “Did you need something, Doctor?”

“Start an IV with D5W on Cadet Kirk and order him a light meal.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Bones…” Jim’s tone held a hard-edged note of warning.

“It’s a small amount of food, Jim. Your blood sugar and electrolytes are low. I told you the regeneration process takes a lot out of your body. You need to get your blood chemistry back into an acceptable range before we can do another treatment.” He rested a hand on Jim’s shoulder. “I’m going to take the bandages off and examine your eyes while I have a minute.”

“I should be in engineering.”

“No, you shouldn’t. It’s too soon for you to contemplate returning to duty. You’re right where you need to be, Jim. Just relax.” He lowered the lights above the bed and carefully cut away the bandages. “Let me know if you experience any pain. I’ve lowered the lights, but you should still be able to see shapes if everything went well.”

McCoy could feel the tension gripping Jim’s body as he removed the bandages. “Keep your eyes closed for a moment.” He retrieved a small scanning wand that was designed to focus in on a narrow field and magnify it, producing a more detailed scan. He passed the wand over Jim’s eyes and was relieved to see the cells had undergone a significant amount of repair. Setting the wand aside, he said, “Okay, you can open your eyes.”

Jim’s eyelids slowly lifted. Brilliant blue irises suddenly locked on McCoy’s face.

“What do you see?”

For a long moment, Jim didn’t move, then the corners of his mouth curled up. “You’re scowling, Bones. And you look like hell.”

“What can I say? You bring out the best in me.” He held up his hand. “How many fingers?”

“Four.”

He nodded. “Good. Regen looks like it did its job.”

“So, no more bandages?”

Nurse Cyn returned with a covered tray and set it down on the bed table.

McCoy shook his head. “We’ll need to keep your eyes covered until after the next treatment,” he said. “They’re healing nicely, but they’re still sensitive to stress. Like using them to see.”

Jim obediently closed his eyes. “Not looking at anything, Bones.”

“Light is a stressor, too, even low levels,” McCoy said apologetically, “so just keeping them shut isn’t an option.” He realized that with the bandages off, he could easily see the lines bracketing Jim’s eyes and creasing his forehead.

He looked up at the monitor, which confirmed his suspicions. Jim was in pain. Christ. Was the kid pathologically incapable of saying ‘I hurt’? “Nurse Cyn is going to start an IV and rebandage your eyes before you start on that tray. Do yourself – and me – a favor and don’t give her any grief.”

Cyn smiled her thanks to him from across the bed as she prepared the IV.

“Also, give him 25mg of Methodine, Cyn, before he eats.” McCoy rested a hand on Jim’s chest for a long moment before lifting it, reassured by the steady beat of Jim’s heart. “I’ll check on you in a little while. I need to see how Dr. Stewart is doing and update the staff. Try to rest once you finish eating.”

Jim grabbed his arm, holding him in place. He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly against the sting of Sickbay’s bright lights, and locked gazes with McCoy. “Thanks, Bones.”

McCoy smiled. “You’re welcome, kid.”

* * *

The bandages on his eyes were too tight, pressing into his temples so that he could feel every pulsing throb of his headache. He was pacing the small confines of the CMO’s office. It was six paces wall to wall. More like a jail cell than an office, but it was the only place where he could stretch his legs and burn off pent-up energy without risking bumping into a nurse or enduring a lecture on the need to rest.

He’d had his second regen on his eyes only hours ago and Bones had insisted on replacing the bandages. _It’s not for much longer, Jim. Better to be safe than sorry._ McCoy wanted him to rest, but he’d been called out of Sickbay by Alvarez before he could get started on his usual lecture, leaving Jim to the nurses’ supervision. He’d eaten another meal, if you could call swallowing a half dozen bites of a really terrible stew, eating. It had been enough to satisfy them, though. Jim suspected they were more invested in trying to avoid Bones’ wrath by following the letter of the law on proper nutrition, so to speak, than deal with Jim’s lack of appetite and stubbornness. When a phaser injury had arrived in Sickbay, he’d taken the opportunity to sneak off to the only private space available. The fact that it was also the least likely place anyone would look for him was just a bonus.

Here, in the quiet solitude, he could think.

_He sat on the biobed with his legs dangling over the side and his hands gripping the edge for stability as he listened to the myriad sounds surrounding him in Sickbay. It was busy. He’d quickly learned to distinguish the difference between a patient’s walk and that of the medical staff, so he knew that there were more medical personnel than patients present. The nurses spoke freely around him, as if his ears were as damaged as his eyes. Stewart was showing improvement, but they were concerned about the supply of fresh blood on hand, particularly for those with blood types other than O positive, if more crew were attacked. They were also glad McCoy was CMO and appreciated his grumpy competence. They apparently didn’t think any more highly of Z’Tar than Jim did._

_He was listening to nurse Ria’s latest concerns when a new voice snagged his attention._

_“Kirk.”_

_He turned his head toward the sound of the familiar voice. “Taavi?”_

_“Yeah. How are you doing?”_

_“Okay.” He pointed to the bandages. “Should get these off later today, then I can get back on duty. What are you doing here?”_

_“Delivering supplies.” She stood close enough for him to smell the tang of engine oil and ionized air on her. “I suppose you already know the whole ship is wrapped up tight.”_

_He nodded._

_She lowered her voice. “You were right, Kirk. How long you think that thing’s been on the ship?”_

_Jim shrugged. “Since we came back from the planet, likely.”_

_“What’s it want, you think?”_

_“Us. Or more specifically, our blood.”_

_“Engineering shut down the vents and Alvarez won’t move the damn ship. We’re trapped with this thing,” she said, keeping her voice low as she pressed up against his bed._

_Jim knew they hadn’t engaged the impulse engines – he would have easily heard them – and, as a result, the ship must still be in standard orbit, which told him that Alvarez wasn’t going to move the ship away from the planet. “He wants to destroy the cloud creature, Taavi. Better to be the hunter than the hunted.”_

_“We’re not hunting. We’re waiting.”_

_“For what?”_

_“Help to arrive.”_

_“Help?”_

_“Captain’s called for reinforcements. The_ Lexington _is on her way.”_

He stopped his pacing and put a hand to his temple as his heartrate increased, intensifying the jolts of pain. The bandages squeezed his skull, too tightly wrapped to be comfortable, and with increasing desperation, he wanted them off. Unfortunately, they would need to be cut, since they’d resisted his earlier efforts to slip them off, and even he knew enough not to mess with a laser scalpel when he couldn’t see.

The door hissed open and the sounds of Sickbay drifted into the small room.

“There you are,” McCoy said in a clipped tone that conveyed his annoyance. “I thought I was going to have to send out a search party. What the hell are you doing in here?”

The door hissed shut, reestablishing the welcome quiet. Jim heard McCoy take a few steps toward him.

“Are you completely incapable of following the simplest instructions? I told you to rest.” Pause. “What’s wrong? Do your eyes hurt? Are you in pain?”

Jim dropped his hand from his temple with a sigh. “The bandages are too tight, Bones. They’re giving me a headache.”

A snort.

“Pacing like a caged animal is giving you the headache. Why do you have such a hard time resting? Anyone else would be glad for the chance to grab a little shut-eye.”

A cool hand touched the side of his face and he flinched away. He hadn’t heard Bones close the final distance separating them.

“Easy, kid,” McCoy said quietly. “I’m just going to have a look.” Warm fingers probed the edge of the bandaging. “They feel all right to me.” His fingers encircled Jim’s bicep. “Here, sit down.”

“Take them off,” Jim demanded, allowing McCoy to guide him into the chair.

“No. They stay on for another six and half hours. Then we’ll take them off and evaluate.”

The whirl of a tricorder filled the air, setting Jim’s nerves on edge.

“Don’t you have anything better to do, Bones?”

“At the moment, no. Your temperature’s down. That’s good, but your blood pressure is up.”

The invasive whirl stopped, and he heard the chink of the tricorder being laid on the desk. The air stirred as Bones took a step back.

“What’s got you so riled up?”

He envisioned Bones leaning against the edge of the desk, his arms crossed and a scowl on his face, and shrugged. “Take your pick. I’m blind. There’s a deadly alien creature on the ship that’s hunting us. The crew are getting killed and from what the nurses say, we don’t have enough units of blood.”

“There’s plenty of O positive,” McCoy interjected. “And quite of bit of synthetic blood on hand, so we’re probably fine. Besides, that damn creature isn’t leaving many victims behind needing treatment.”

“We should move away from the planet. Staying here isn’t going to accomplish anything. It’s feeding off of us and we’re sitting ducks, since we can’t locate it with our sensors.”

“That’s old news. What’s really eating at you?”

Jim hesitated. It wasn’t surprising that Bones wasn’t buying his explanation, but he didn’t want to talk about what was really bothering him – even though Bones was the only one on the ship who would really understand. Jim licked dry lips, torn between honesty and camouflage.

“Jim?”

“Alvarez called for reinforcements.”

“Yeah, I heard. It might not be what Garrovick would have done, but we’ve lost over forty crew members. And Alvarez could probably use another captain’s advice. So, under the circumstances, reinforcements are good, aren’t they?”

“It won’t make a difference. Nothing is going to help except getting out of this system. If we leave, the creature will be forced back down to the surface of the planet to feed.”

McCoy let out a heavy sigh. “You don’t know that. Not for sure. Is this hunch the reason you’re wearing a hole in the floor? You know the only thing you’re accomplishing is getting your blood-pressure up, right?”

Jim rubbed his hands against his thighs and swallowed past the dryness in this throat. “It’s the _Lexington_ , Bones. Alvarez called for aid and the _Lexington_ is responding _._ ”

There was a long silence. He could practically feel McCoy put the pieces together.

“Your mother’s ship,” McCoy said, slowly. “Does she know you’re here?”

“She knows. Pike probably sent her a personal memo.” Jim couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice. Why was everything that happened in his life up for public discussion? Fuck, she probably even knew he’d been hurt. His gut clenched at that thought, and he asked, “She hasn’t contacted you, has she?”

“No, Jim, she hasn’t. I would have told you if she had. And based on our last conversation, it’s unlikely she would reach out to me again.”

True. His mother could get plenty of information on him through her well-established ‘Fleet network. She could have even spoken with Garrovick. Winona Kirk knew a lot of people in high places. “I’m not ready to see her, Bones. Not yet. Not like this.”

A soft sigh. “I know, Jim. Let’s deal with that when we get there. Right now, you need to rest and let the regen therapy do its work. You’re still recovering, whether you want to believe it or not.”

“I can’t just sit in Sickbay while this creature attacks the crew.”

“It’s the _only_ thing you can do. It’s what everyone’s doing. Jim, you can’t see. What do you imagine you can do, other than distract those who need to be focused on finding this creature by having to look out for your welfare while they search?”

That stung.

“I’m not helpless!”

“No, but you can’t see and that means you can’t carry a weapon. You’d be a liability.”

“I—”

“What would you do if you were the captain and you had a crewmember asking for permission to do what you’re asking?”

Jim’s hands curled into fists. Fuck. Bones was right, and he knew it. Still… “It knows we’re hunting it. It’s not going to just sit still while we take shots at it. It’s smarter than that. It holed up while it observed us, and waited for us to drop our guard. It’s not just going to go away, Bones. Not until it wants to. Not until it’s finished.”

“Okay,” McCoy said softly. “So, what’s your suggestion? Beam it back to the planet and leave it?”

No, that wasn’t going to work. He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew this thing wanted off the planet. All the probes had confirmed the total absence of higher life forms on Tycho IV. No wonder, with the cloud creature killing them faster than they could breed as it fed. No, it had been waiting for a ship, surviving on what little insect life existed, and it was hungry. Starving.

_‘Doctor McCoy to the ICU. Doctor McCoy to the ICU.’_

McCoy swore softly and stood. Jim felt strong fingers circle his bicep. “Come on. You need to rest, and I need to keep an eye on you while I work. Let Alvarez take care of the ship and we’ll worry about the _Lexington_ when we need to.”

He allowed Bones to guide him out of the quiet office into the noise of Sickbay.

“Take Cadet Kirk back to his bed and give him 25mg of Methodine,” McCoy said.

“Of course, Doctor,” a male voice said, startling him.

Another hand latched onto his arm. “Right this way, Cadet.”

Once settled into his bed, he waited for the pain medication to ease his pounding head. For the moment, it was all he could do.

* * *

McCoy had just finished stabilizing Stewart’s heart when the Sickbay doors swished open.

“We need help over here,” one of the dozen crew who had just entered called out.

The medical team swarmed the small group who were carrying five unconscious crewmembers. All the unconscious crew members had strikingly pale complexions and they were visibly struggling to breathe. With practiced ease, the medical team moved as one. There was a flurry of activity as they rushed to get the unconscious crew members onto bio beds, initiating oxygen therapy, starting peripheral IV lines, and drawing labs, while they waited for orders on blood administration.

“We were attacked,” a lieutenant said. “It moved so damn fast we barely got off any shots. The beams didn’t even faze it. Before we knew it, it was on top of us.”

“Z’Tar,” McCoy said, seeing the doctor arrive. “Take beds eight and nine. I’ll get the rest.”

“These patients are critical. They need to be in an ICU.”

“There’s only one designated ICU room and Stewart’s in it. Our entire Sickbay just became an ICU. Now, get moving.” He let his gaze sweep the room and raised his voice. “Okay, people, order of priority is as follows: preliminary lab draws, peripheral IVs to start and oxygen masks instead of nasal cannulas, until either Dr. Z’Tar or I can intubate. Once we have the patients intubated, bump their oxygen to 100%. I want two peripheral lines per patient. Hang a unit of packed cells on each line, preferably under pressure. If you run short of blood pumps, make sure there’s at least one on each patient, and manually apply light pressure to the second bag of blood. As soon as a unit finishes, hang another. Once the patient has received four units, draw a pedo tube of blood and have the lab run a CBC stat. Put the results up on the monitors. Once Dr. Z’Tar and I have everyone intubated, we’ll circle back and start a central line on each victim, so have those trays ready for us. Shout if your patient starts to circle the drain. Any questions?” He did a quick scan of faces, and saw only focused determination and flying hands. “Okay, get working.”

An hour and half later McCoy scanned the overhead monitors of the remaining four patients with grim satisfaction. Lt. Pepin had succumbed to his injuries. Despite their best attempts to quickly improve his blood count, he’d gone into cardiac arrest and died, taking four units of O positive blood with him. McCoy walked to the circulation desk and made his notes for the remaining patients, who were stable, but critical. He’d just finished when the deck vibrated beneath his feet.

What the hell?

He looked around Sickbay to see the medical staff had stopped in their tracks, all of them wearing a look of wary expectation. A moment later, the red alert blared. Instinctively, he looked to make sure Jim was all right. His gaze zeroed in on the kid’s assigned bed, and a tight knot formed in his stomach. The bed was empty except for wrinkled sheets and rumpled blankets.

Where the hell was Jim?

* * *

Jim kept his hand on the bulkhead as he walked along the corridor, using the smooth surface to feel his way. He’d memorized the ship’s design and layout before he’d boarded, and even without the benefit of sight, he could navigate the empty corridors easily. The surface under his fingers disappeared and he knew he was at the second junction. Crossing the open space in six quick steps, he touched the cool metal wall of the next bulkhead and continued down the corridor. The turbo lift was now less than seven meters away.

Staying close to the bulkhead, he moved quickly, mentally counting off the distance to the lift.

He was running out of time. Intuition screamed that the recent attack had been the final test by the creature. Another sly, deadly strike, testing their defenses, probing for a response that might endanger its life . He’d easily overheard the security team’s report when they’d brought the injured crew into Sickbay. The creature had moved quickly, appearing without warning, and their phase fire had been ineffective, creating rattled nerves and growing fears that the _Farragut_ was dealing with an enemy it couldn’t defeat.

But Jim knew that wasn’t accurate. The cloud creature wasn’t infallible or indestructible. No living thing was. It was an unknown entity in many ways, but it acted like any other creature that wanted to live and thrive. Like any predator, it was cautious and cunning. Nothing about what it did was random. The one advantage the creature had was the element of surprise.

But Jim was going to turn the tables.

Jim knew where it was hiding. The element of surprise could be eliminated.

And then, with new data, he would figure out how to kill it.

The sound of cautious footsteps caused him to tense. He slowed his pace as the footsteps drew near, and stopped.

“Jim! What are you doing here?”

“Abeer?”

“Yeah.” A hand touched his arm. “You okay?”

“I need to get to the turbines, Abeer,” he said, ignoring the question. “I know where the creature is hiding.”

“Captain’s locked down the ship. We ca—”

A shudder rocked the deck, cutting Abeer off in midsentence. Jim swayed, scrabbling for purchase on the smooth surface of the bulkhead. Abeer’s hands latched onto his arms, preventing both of them from falling as the deck pitched, then steadied.

“What the hell?” Abeer said, his voice shaking. “Are we being attacked?”

“That wasn’t artillery fire,” Jim said. “That was an explosion. Engineering. Lower deck. Aft.”

“That’s the secondary hull. The main thrusters.”

Jim nodded.

The red alert blared, filling the narrow corridor.

“Fuck,” Abeer said. “I gotta go. I gotta report to my station in engineering.”

Jim quickly reached out and grasped hold of Abeer, twisting his fingers into the fabric of the man’s uniform. “No, don’t go! It’s a trap.”

“Jim, I gotta-”

“It’s a trap, Abeer. You’ve got to get to the weapons station.”

“I can’t. I’m assigned to DC!” Abeer pulled, trying to evade his grasp.

“No. Listen to me. The creature is luring us in, just like before!”

Abeer jerked free of Jim’s grasp and seized hold of Jim’s arm. The next thing Jim knew he was being hauled along the corridor. “Come on.”

“Wait. No.” Unable to see, Jim was dragged, resisting, into the lift. “Abeer, stop!”

The red alert klaxon continued to blare, drowning out Jim’s protests. The pounding in his head began to escalate and fuck, he couldn’t see a damn thing. “Listen to me, Abeer. We’ve got to get to the weapons station, or we’re all going to die.”

The lift stopped and before he could react, Abeer propelled him out of the turbo lift.

“Stay with me, Jim. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Abeer, listen, it’s—”

Abeer suddenly halted. His grip on Jim’s arm was like a vice.

“Oh my god,” Abeer said under his breath.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Abeer slowly backed away, dragging him along.

“What? What is it? What’s happening?”

A phaser fired. Then another. Then more shots whined out in quick succession, before falling abruptly silent.

Fuck!

Abeer’s grasp suddenly disappeared, leaving Jim stranded. He tore at his bandages, desperate to see, and managed to get a finger under them enough to free his right eye. His vision was blurry, and his eye began to furiously water. He heard the quick thud of footsteps and realized that Abeer must have run ahead in the corridor when he had abandoned him, and was now retreating back in Jim’s direction.

Blinking furiously, he saw the wavering red glow of the alarm lights, the hard decking.

“Run, Jim!” Abeer shouted, his voice a strangled cry.

Jim blinked furiously, straining to see clearly, his heart pounding.

The corridor slowly swam into focus, resolving into a scene of devastation. Bodies, their limbs askew, sprawled on top of each other a short way down the corridor. The crew’s phasers littered the deck, like useless confetti. Everything was motionless and silent, the only sound the foreboding wail of the red alert that continued to fill the air.

As he stared at the carnage, Jim saw something move. Instinctively, he hit the ground as he had been trained to do, flattening himself against the hard deck.

A moment later, he felt it.

Cold fire seared his back as the heavy, sweet scent of Tycho IV smothered him. He sensed the creature’s malevolence, its _hunger_ , and there was a kind of sick familiarity to the union, as if he knew this creature and it knew him.

Was it like this for the others, he wondered?

A gray veil fell over his vision and his chest began to burn. Ice invaded his limbs, freezing him in place.

Had they felt it’s cunning as they slipped into bitter death?

He released a shuddering breath, his lungs straining for air.

The frigid cold expanded as darkness claimed him.


	9. Chapter 9

McCoy watched Jim slip deeper into unconsciousness with an unsettling combination of relief and anxiety. He released a breath and transferred the hand he had pressed against Jim’s cheek to his hand, grateful that the younger man had stabilized a bit. Keeping hold of Jim’s cool, limp fingers, he moved aside to make room for the nurse so that she could hang another bag of the whole blood he’d ordered.

He studied the monitor for a long minute, scowling. Jim was responding too slowly to the blood they were infusing for McCoy’s peace of mind.

_Come on, Jim._

Jim’s heartrate was irregular and far too fast, as his heart struggled to pump his iron-depleted blood throughout his oxygen-starved body. They were out of O negative packed cells and Jim was allergic to every synthetic blood replacement available. So, he had been forced to default to using what little whole blood they had on hand that matched Jim’s blood type when packed cells would have been preferable.

The creature’s attack had taken Jim’s hemoglobin down to dangerous levels. Without available packed cells to quickly replenish his red blood cells, Jim’s condition remained unstable and critical. Balancing the fluid load while they tried to rapidly raise Jim’s hemoglobin was tricky, since his heart was already stressed by his body’s demands.

But at least he was alive, which was more than he could say for the other two hundred crew who had died because of the creature’s predations. How long McCoy could keep him – or any more surviving victims – alive was another matter.

He took a step back as another nurse covered Jim with a warming blanket. McCoy stared down at Jim’s still form and chalk-white complexion. They were running out of time. They needed to figure out how to kill the damned creature, and fast. Somehow Jim had survived when all the other engineering crew had died, their bodies sprawled across the deck, expressions frozen in disbelief and horror. When Jim had been rushed into Sickbay after the attack, he’d barely been breathing.

_What the hell were you doing in Engineering, kid?_

Once the blanket was settled over Jim, and the nurse moved away from the bedside, McCoy carefully tucked Jim’s hand under the blanket. Letting go of Jim’s chilly hand felt like an abandonment.

He rubbed his hands over his face, exhaustion and stress making him feel ancient. Fucking floating tin can and its limited supplies. He’d never run out of blood in a hospital on Earth. Medical supplies were always available and even in a multiple-casualties event, if they were running short of blood, he could have it and other needed supplies beamed to the hospital within minutes. But out in the dark of space there was only what the ship carried. When supplies were depleted, that was it until they docked again for resupply. Managing inventory, he was beginning to understand, was critical to ensuring they had enough supplies on hand for whatever occurred while out in the black.

Maybe if Stewart had been a trauma surgeon instead of a doctor with a background in infectious disease, they would have been better equipped for an event like this. You could damn well bet he wouldn’t make the same mistake. But that realization wasn’t going to do him any good now.

He hated being helpless.

“Doctor?”

He dropped his hands with a sigh, but didn’t bother turning around to face Davi as he asked, “Yeah?”

“Engineer Michaels died.”

Disheartened, he turned around to face Davi, who looked grim even for a Caitian, and nodded once in acknowledgement. That was their fourth death in the last six hours, leaving only thirty-two patients, including Jim, struggling to survive.

“How much more synthetic blood do we have?”

“Enough for two units each for the remaining patients.”

“I know the units of packed cells are running low. Where do we stand?”

“The last of the available units are up, and infusing.”

“What about whole blood?”

“We have two units of O positive whole blood left. All other blood types are gone.” Davi motioned with his head to the newly hung bag on Jim’s IV pole. “Everyone in the crew that can donate has done so, but that’s the last unit of O neg whole blood.”

McCoy felt his stomach clench. If the creature attacked again, they were going to be shit out of luck. And it was more a question of when, not if…

“Do you have any good news?”

“Captain Alvarez wants to speak to you.” Davi’s voice caught slightly on the word ‘captain’. “He’s in Stewart’s office.”

Fucking fantastic.

McCoy looked down at Jim for a moment and then back to Davi. “Keep an eye on his heartrate and rhythm. He’s been having some arrythmias but I’m hoping this unit of whole blood will even those out. Comm me if anything changes with Jim, or anyone else.”

“Sure thing, Dr. McCoy.”

The CMO office was located just past the circulation desk, and he had a good view of Sickbay as he made his way there. Every available bed was filled. Gurneys that had been pressed into duty as additional beds filled what little space that remained, all of them surrounded by medical personnel.

McCoy rubbed the back of his neck. The muscles there were tight, no doubt contributing to his throbbing headache. Sickbay was close to being overwhelmed. The need for constant patient care, compounded by the shortage of blood supplies, had stretched them close to the breaking point. He was counting on his patients’ stamina and lots of luck to keep them alive until help arrived.

Tired and heartsick, McCoy walked through the office door and let it slide shut behind him. Alvarez stood in front of the empty desk, looking tense and haggard. Dark smudges stained the skin beneath his pale eyes. He looked as exhausted as any of the Sickbay staff. McCoy wanted to tell him to get some rest, but with less than two hundred crew left on their feet, they needed every able-bodied crewman they had left to operate the ship.

“You wanted to see me, Captain.” The title struck him anew, reminding him of Garrovick’s loss.

“The _Lexington_ will be here within the hour,” Alvarez said. “Contact Mallory, the CMO and give him a list of medical supplies and anything else you need, including medical staff.”

McCoy narrowed his eyes. “What about the creature? Won’t the _Lexington_ be at risk from it, too? How will they prevent it from boarding their ship? This thing just killed over two hundred of our crew in less than an hour. What’s the _Lexington_ going to be able to do that we haven’t to protect themselves?”

“That won’t be a problem, Doctor. The creature’s gone for now.” Alvarez spoke with complete certainty. “We saw it on visual heading back down to Tycho IV. We don’t know why, but it’s off the ship, and we’re going to take advantage of that fact. As soon as the creature enters the outer atmosphere of the planet, we’ll break orbit, and engage our warp engines. We believe putting significant distance between it and us will keep it from returning. We’ve already notified the _Lexington_ of the new rendezvous site. They will meet us there and stay long enough to transfer over supplies and any supplemental crew we need. We’ve been ordered back to Earth dock for debrief, and repairs and resupply.”

“What about the creature?”

We’ll set warning buoys in this sector advising others to avoid the planet.” Alvarez’s jaw tensed. “It’s all we can do, Doctor McCoy. We have no idea how to kill or contain the cloud creature. It’s deadly to human life. Avoidance is our safest option.”

He studied Alvarez for a long moment, not nearly as confident as the new captain appeared to be that the creature was gone for good. All attempts by the _Farragut_ to rid the ship of the creature had failed, and it had cost them over half their crew. Perhaps if he’d seen it leave for himself…

McCoy felt the thrum of the warp engines engaging through the soles of his boots and sighed. If Alvarez thought it was time to surrender and let someone else take up the fight, who was he to argue? He didn’t care one way or another, as long as the creature was gone. His primary concern was keeping the patients in his Sickbay alive.

“I’ll get the list together right away.”

Alvarez nodded, but didn’t give any indication he was ready to leave, despite the ship being underway.

“Anything else?” McCoy asked, already mentally composing a list of critical supplies.

“How’s Kirk?

The question surprised him. Alvarez hadn’t shown any interest in Jim, in fact quite the opposite, especially after the away team debacle, and he wondered what was behind the inquiry now. “Critical. We’re out of all blood that matches his blood type and he’s allergic to the synthetics. He’s anemic and hypoxic, and we’re struggling to keep his oxygen levels up even with supplemental oxygen.”

Alvarez absorbed the information with a tight mouth. “Is he going to die?”

“Not if I can help it.” He kept his gaze steady.

Alvarez swallowed and licked his lips. “His mother’s chief of engineering on the _Lexington_. She wants to see him.”

 _Now_ he understood the sudden interest.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir,” he said. In his current condition, the last thing Jim needed was a surprise visit from his mother. He remembered how Jim had reacted the last time his mother wanted to visit him when he was ill.

“It wasn’t a request,” Alvarez said tightly. “Captain Rosseau made that very clear.”

McCoy felt his temper rise. “Kirk’s in critical condition. He’s not stable enough to have visitors.”

“His mother is George Kirk’s widow. I can’t refuse her, if Captain Rosseau is supporting her request.”

“But I can,” he said, keeping his voice level with an effort. “As CMO, all medical matters are under my authority. If I say Jim’s too ill to receive visitors, that’s the end of the matter.” McCoy didn’t care about Starfleet politics or Winona Kirk’s authority. He wasn’t going to risk Jim’s health to allay her anxiety.

“Fine.” Alvarez said, frowning. “Commander Kirk will be here within the hour. I’ll leave it up to you to tell her she can’t see her son _and_ handle whatever fallout results.” With that, he stalked past McCoy out of the office.

Coward, McCoy thought scornfully. He’d already experienced Winona’s forbidding presence and understood that ‘no’ wasn’t a word she readily accepted.

He could only imagine how formidable she’d seemed to the acting-Captain, when she brought the weight of her name and history to bear. No doubt she’d dropped a few other, higher-up names in the process, too, making her connections clear. Alvarez would likely have been influenced – or intimidated – by those connections since he was newly promoted to the rank of captain. And one who was already under a great deal of stress.

McCoy snorted. Starfleet politics was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now. He had enough to worry about without adding a visit from Winona Kirk on top of everything else.

Fortunately, he had little time to worry about it. There were more pressing matters claiming his attention.

Like keeping Jim, and the remaining thirty-two crew under his care in Sickbay, alive long enough for supplies to arrive.

* * *

Before they arrived at the new rendezvous site, two more of the hospitalized crew died.

The _Farragut’s_ remaining crew were on edge, their nerves worn thin. Everyone was still spooking at shadows, despite Alvarez’s assurances that the creature was gone. Each minute they were underway took them farther from the Tycho IV system. Blessedly, there had been no further incidents since the _Farragut_ had warped away from the planet toward the rendezvous point with the _Lexington_. Maybe, McCoy thought, Captain Alvarez had been right and the damned creature was no longer a threat.

McCoy wished he could do more to help the jittery crew members, but he didn’t have the staff or time to treat them for anything less than critical injuries. He’d had to turn them away from Sickbay with nothing more than a sympathetic look and some homespun advice, after scanning them and finding nothing but high stress levels. His own staff were stressed _and_ exhausted, practically staggering on their feet, feeling helpless and wretched as they watched their patients’ conditions worsen.

As ordered, McCoy had contacted Mallory, the CMO of the _Lexington._ According to the man’s personnel file, which McCoy had accessed because he liked knowing who he was dealing with, Mallory had spent his entire medical career on starships. Their brief, vid-screen confab had shown him a calm, fortyish physician with few wrinkles in his dark face despite his record of extensive shipboard experience.

The man hadn’t blinked at the long list of critical supplies McCoy had requested, as if meeting up with another starship in the middle of nowhere to share provisions was normal. Maybe it was, for all McCoy knew. Certainly, it was efficient.

Fifteen minutes after rendezvousing with the _Farragut_ , the _Lexington’s_ medical staff arrived in Sickbay on their temporary assignments, immediately followed by the requested supplies. For the next few hours, McCoy worked triage, allocating assignments and directing the flow of blood products to the most critical patients.

Just as they hung Jim’s first unit of packed cells, McCoy had been forced away from his bedside as another crewmember coded. After that it was a blur of action as they rushed to stabilize over a dozen increasingly unstable crew members with the newly available blood while coordinating the handoffs between the _Farragut’s_ exhausted medical team and the _Lexington_ staff relieving them. 

Hours later, McCoy finished signing the last medical chart with updated orders at the circulation desk and handed the data pads to an unknown, fresh-faced nurse.

Since the _Farragut_ had been ordered to return to Earth, it had been decided during a brief administrative huddle with the senior doctor sent over from the _Lexington,_ that all the patients would stay on the _Farragut,_ instead of being transferred to the _Lexington_. The _Lexington_ would resume its assignment in the Kiddlian system while waiting for their crew members who had been temporarily assigned to the _Farragut to rejoin them_.

In addition, the _Farragut_ would transport the victims of the creature’s attacks back to Earth and, once they arrived, oversee the processing of the two hundred dead crew who, out of necessity, had been laid out on the bare decking in the cargo bay. With the creature no longer aboard, and the resupply accomplished, the _Lexington_ doctor felt there was no need for both ships to return to Earth. Their captains had concurred, she informed him.

Reading between the lines, McCoy was well aware of her meaning: Dead was dead. No need to inconvenience the living.

He had shrugged, too tired to argue with her.

With the additional medical staff assisting with the care of the thirty injured crew, the small bay was crowded and humming with activity. The most critical patients, while improving with the administration of blood, were still unstable, their condition changing unpredictably, keeping the medical staff on their toes. No one knew if the patients’ lability was a result of direct contact with the cloud creature or an unfamiliar sequelae of the hemoglobin depletion. Whatever the reason, the medical staff was constantly on alert, closely monitoring the patients for any hints of a relapse.

McCoy took a moment to scan the bay and his eyes narrowed as he caught sight of an unfamiliar figure in formal grays next to Jim’s bed.

Ria caught his stare and glanced over at its source. “That’s Commander Kirk, Cadet Kirk’s mother,” she said, turning back to him.

Shit, he’d forgotten about Winona.

“How long has she been here?”

Ria shrugged tiredly. “I’m not sure.” She tapped a few keys. “It doesn’t look like anyone logged her in.”

Of course not, he thought angrily. She knew that would require approval. He continued to watch her for a long minute, trying to decide his next move in this powerplay but nothing seemed certain of success.

Lips pursed, he shifted his gaze back to Ria – and noticed her red eyes. “How long have you been on duty?”

“No longer than you have.”

He scowled, letting his irritation show. “You’ve got another hour, tops, to finish up and then you’re done. I don’t want to see you back here until Alpha shift tomorrow.”

With that, he stepped away from the circulation desk, and strode over to Jim’s bed near the back of the bay, hiding his frustration in movement.

Winona Kirk ignored his approach. She stood silently, pressed close to the side of the bio bed, oblivious to the chaos around her. As he drew closer, he saw that she was holding Jim’s limp hand in both of hers.

McCoy grimaced, and shifted his gaze to Jim. The oxygen mask did little to hide the deathly pallor of his face, and he could hear Jim’s rapid breathing through the mask. His eyes were closed, and his head was turned slightly away from Winona, motionless on the thin pillow.

A strange sense of relief swept through McCoy as he realized Jim was still deeply unconscious. Hopefully, he would remain unaware of his mother’s presence. Out of habit, he quickly raised his gaze to the overhead monitor which was still ablaze with numerous yellow warnings.

“Where’s he at?” he asked the hovering nurse. He didn’t recognize her, so she must be from the _Lexington._ That fact would also account for why she hadn’t logged a visitor request from Winona Kirk into the system.

“Two units of packed cells are in. The third is hanging, to be followed by a fourth, as you ordered. His heart is still pretty irritable, though, despite the blood. His EKG is showing multiple premature beats. O2 continues at 35% via the mask. He’s tachypneic and tachycardic, but urine output is good. There’s a fresh internal scan available. Another CBC is scheduled to be drawn after the fourth unit of packed cells has infused.”

“Comm me as soon as you have those results, if I’m not here.”

Jim was responding very slowly to the packed cells. He’d been more critical than McCoy thought.

Winona turned her attention to him after he finished speaking. She was as striking in person as she had been in the late-night vid last year. Her blonde hair was braided into a complex design that enhanced the classic beauty of her features. Standing tall in her pristine uniform she looked as if she’d just stepped into line for inspection. Her self-effacing stance was at odds with her appearance – and the determined, intimidating presence he’d previously encountered.

He knew which one he considered to be real.

“Doctor McCoy,” she said. Her voice was softer than he remembered.

“Commander,” he said with a nod and grabbed Jim’s chart from the end of the bed. He wanted to ask if Jim had been awake, if she’d spoken to him, but before he could say anything, she spoke.

“He’s cold,” she said, and gripped Jim’s flaccid hand tighter.

He looked up from the chart, struck by the realization that she looked like any other concerned mother he’d ever encountered. Instead of the persona she normally wore, the hallowed widow of George Kirk, the hero of the Kelvin, she appeared vulnerable and afraid.

“The bio bed warming unit is on. He feels cold because his hemoglobin is still low, and his body is trying to shunt as much oxygenated blood as it can to his organs. We’re transfusing packed cells as quickly as we can now that we have a fresh supply from the _Lexington._ Unfortunately, we ran out of all blood products in Jim’s blood type before your ship arrived.”

He noted that the fresh bag of blood he’d ordered was hanging on the IV pole and was now almost half empty.

“He seems so ill. Why didn’t you use synthetics when you ran out of fresh blood?” she demanded.

Her question surprised him – and told him just how estranged she was from her son, and for how long, if she didn’t know his full list of allergies.

“He’s allergic to them, ma’am,” he replied, trying to mask the censure in his voice.

Her guilty expression told McCoy that he hadn’t entirely succeeded.

She took a deep breath and looked down at Jim. “Is he going to die?”

“Not if I can prevent it. He’s showing some improvement, which is a good sign.”

He’d learned not to predict patient outcomes, or make promises. The simplest injuries could kill, and had, despite his best efforts. His job was not to give false hope but to report Jim’s medical condition as it was – not what he wanted it to be. If it were any other patient, he’d quote the statistics regarding the likelihood of success given the risks of the treatment, but with Jim nothing ever went according to script, so he preferred to be cautious.

“That’s not a yes,” she whispered without looking at him.

“Commander—”

“He looks so pale,” she said, interrupting his response.

McCoy wanted to say more, to reassure her with information as he would any parent in this situation, but he couldn’t. Jim wouldn’t approve, and they both knew it.

Still, he wasn’t unsympathetic. Jim was her son, the child she’d given birth to, the child for whom her husband had sacrificed his life and his future. Whatever had happened between her and Jim in the past, that fact would never change.

“The blood will help,” he offered. “It’s the best treatment we can give him considering how much hemoglobin the cloud creature leeched from his body.” He was skirting the edge of doctor-patient confidentiality, but it was no secret what was ailing Jim, or the others, and why.

She looked up at him, a distressed expression on her face. “Is he in pain?”

“No. Not like you mean. Oxygen hunger, at worst.”

She thought about that for a moment, her brow furrowed, as if she didn’t quite believe him.

Jim moaned, as if to make a liar of him, breaking the tense silence.

McCoy quickly stepped around to the unoccupied side of the bed as Winona gently stroked Jim’s forehead. Looking up at the monitor to confirm that Jim’s vitals hadn’t taken a turn for the worse, McCoy held his breath, praying that Jim would remain unconscious and unaware.

He put a hand on Jim’s chest and felt the shallow, rapid rise of his breaths and the hammering of his heart. Jim mumbled into the mask, his brows twitching.

_Stay unconscious, Jim. Stay unconscious._

“Jim,” Winona suddenly said, leaning close. “It’s me, mom. I’m here, Jim. You’re going to be fine, honey.”

Jim’s brows drew together. The monitor pinged a warning.

“Sam.” The word sounded like both a plea and a curse.

Winona straightened immediately, snatching her hand away from Jim’s forehead as if his skin had burned her.

Startled, McCoy stared at her. She looked stricken, as if Jim had slapped her.

Another soft moan drew McCoy’s attention back to the man in the bed. He leaned down close to Jim’s ear to speak. “You’re all right, Jim. Everything’s under control. You’re safe. Just rest.”

With jerky movements, Winona hastily tucked Jim’s hand under the blankets and took a few steps back from the bio bed.

Jim remained motionless, the only sign of movement the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

_Stay asleep, kid. Don’t wake up. You’re not in any shape to deal with this._

After a long, silent moment fraught with tension, McCoy straightened and removed his hand from Jim’s chest, breathing a silent sigh of relief. He looked at Winona, who stood a few paces from the bed, staring down at Jim with an unreadable expression.

She was no longer open and vulnerable but had closed herself off to become a figure of remote beauty, retreating emotionally the way he’d seen Jim retreat when confronted with something painful.

“He’s a little confused,” McCoy said cautiously, not certain what had caused her to react the way she had. “It’s not uncommon in this type of injury.”

“He asked for Sam,” she said. Her words sounded frozen – or stunned.

“He does that sometimes when he’s very sick.” He studied her closely, burning curiosity finally forcing him to ask. “Who’s Sam?”

Her gaze never strayed from Jim’s face as she answered. “My oldest son.”

As Jim’s primary physician, he knew Jim’s family history, knew he had an older brother. But on Jim’s medical record, his brother’s name was listed as George Samuel Kirk. George, after his father, he had assumed being the first-born son.

He was so tired it took him a moment to connect all the dots, then he wanted to kick himself. Of course, Jim wasn’t going to call his brother by the name of the father he’d never known.

His dead father.

The sudden ping of the bio monitor drew him out of his thoughts.

Jim was throwing a run of PVCs, a clear indication that his heart was tired, and becoming more irritable. And irregular.

Dammit.

The number of PVC’s increased, crowding out the regular rhythm of Jim’s heart. Two, five, ten…

The monitor alarm blared as Jim’s heart began to fibrillate.

“What’s happening?” Winona cried, her terror clear.

“He’s in ventricular fibrillation,” McCoy growled, and palmed the code button. “He’s in cardiac arrest.”

A new alarm began to chant, the computerized voice insistent and clear. “Code Blue, bed eight. Code Blue, bed eight. Code Blue…”

A nurse appeared instantly at the side of the bed, pushing Winona aside, as McCoy grabbed the cardio-stim case.

“Give me a 100 mg of epinephrine now,” he ordered.

Jerking the lid of the case open, he removed the cardio-stim unit.

“Charging to 200. Stand clear,” he ordered, positioning the unit over Jim’s fluttering heart.

“Charged. Delivering shock. Stand clear.”

McCoy depressed the button, triggering the unit to deliver a shock. Jim arched off the bed as the electric current jolted his body. Glancing up at the monitor, McCoy cursed.

“Still in V-fib. Charging to 300. Stand clear.”

The nurse slapped the syringe into his waiting palm.

“Pushing 100 mg of epinephrine. Ready another 100 mg,” he ordered, watching Jim’s rhythm strip on the monitor as he slowly pushed the drug into Jim’s intravenous line. Another nurse, another unknown face, appeared. “Start bagging him.”

The new nurse grabbed the ambu bag and ripped Jim’s face mask away. Fitting the ambu mask in place, she began to deliver regular pulses of oxygenated air to Jim’s lungs.

McCoy could see Jim’s chest rise and fall with each squeeze and relaxation of the bag from the corner of his eye as he watched the monitor.

Nothing.

“Charged to 300. Delivering shock. Stand clear.”

Both nurses took a step back, holding up their hands so McCoy could easily see them.

Another arching jolt of Jim’s body as the charge was delivered.

The nurses immediately resumed their activities.

He found himself holding his breath as he watched the monitor.

_Come on, Jim. Don’t be so damn stubborn._

“Code Blue, bed eight. Code Blue, bed eight. Code Blue…” The alarm continued to repeat its inexorable warning.

“I want another 100 mg of epi,” he barked, holding out his hand.

The nurse smacked another syringe into his palm, and he pushed the medication into Jim’s IV port.

Jim’s heart stuttered, then abruptly settled into a normal sinus rhythm under the influence of the medication.

A hot wave of relief turned McCoy’s knees to jelly.

Breathing deeply, McCoy took a cautious step back, laying the cardio-stim aside.

“Do you want to continue with the epinephrine, Doctor?” the _Lexington_ nurse asked.

“Yes, start a drip at 4 mg per minute, and titrate lower after an hour, if his rhythm remains stable. Hang that next unit of packed cells ASAP. Put it on a pump.” They had to get Jim’s hemoglobin up faster. His heart needed the relief. “And give him another 25 mgs of Falidadone. That will help heal any damage to the heart caused by the anoxia.”

McCoy glanced upward. The monitor indicated that Jim’s rhythm was still stable. “Draw a set of labs. Use the pedo tubes. And cancel the Code alarm.” 

Relative silence followed on the heels of his orders, both nurses busy carrying out his instructions. McCoy continued to watch the monitor, until yet another nurse glided up to the bedside with a bag of blood and a blood pump, and proceeded to hang them, breaking his brooding stance.

His focus had been solely on Jim and snatching him back from the jaws of death. He’d forgotten about Winona, who’d just witnessed her son’s near brush with mortality. He turned away from the monitor in order to say a few reassuring words to her but found the space where she’d been standing empty. He scanned the bay, wondering if she’d moved out of the medical team’s way, but he didn’t see her.

“Commander Kirk left,” the nurse busy with the blood said, correctly interpreting his head swivel.

“When?” Had she left before Jim was even stable?

“I’m not sure. Word is the _Lexington_ is pulling out shortly. Maybe she had to return to her duties.”

Or maybe she hadn’t wanted to be a helpless witness, watching her son die as she stood at his bedside, the way she had with her husband, he thought grimly. He released a deep breath, feeling the ache of exhaustion weighing down every part of his body.

Christ, he was tired.

Tired of it all.

He was going to kiss the ground when they got to Earth.

* * *

“Doctor McCoy.”

The sound of his name infiltrated his dreams, pulling him from a deep well of sleep. He grunted, barely aware of the soft pillow that he was burying his face into, in an attempt to shut out the insistent voice disturbing his rest, and hang on to the comforting darkness. He didn’t want to wake up. He dimly remembered the glorious moment his weary body had stretched out on the narrow cot in the CMO’s office, before exhaustion had claimed him, sucking him into unconsciousness despite his concerns at leaving Z’Tar in charge.

It had been the first real sleep he’d gotten in days and he burrowed deeper, trying to ignore the nagging voice.

A persistent hand shook his shoulder, undeterred.

“Doctor McCoy.”

_Fuck._

“What?” he grumbled without opening his eyes, hoping the reason for this disturbance to his rest didn’t require him waking fully.

“Cadet Kirk is asking for you.”

He opened his eyes and rolled into a sitting position, blinking to clear his vision as his brain struggled to wake along with his body. The distant ache of a not-enough-sleep headache throbbed behind his eyes.

The office was dimly lit enough to see Ria’s familiar figure crouched in front of him.

“What time is it?” he asked as he pulled on his boots.

“Thirteen twenty-three.”

Jim had been in and out of consciousness for the past two days as McCoy tried to stabilize him. His heart continued to go into arrythmia at times, despite the additional four units of packed cells and the medications he’d been given.

McCoy suspected Jim’s system had been overtaxed by the FLX10 exposure, and the attack from the cloud creature had only strained it more, making recovery difficult and slow. But his labs were looking more encouraging. Or they had been before McCoy had yielded to the need for sleep.

McCoy scrubbed his hands over his face, hoping the rough stimulation would wake him further. The muscles in the back of his neck were tight and stiff. He rolled his head once to loosen them before rising to his feet. “How are his vitals?”

“In range. No fever. Sats are still a little low, but not critical. His last CBC showed a red cell count of 4.1, hemoglobin of 11.9 and his ‘crit was 37.”

Better. Much better. All that blood finally seemed to be helping.

He walked toward the door. “And his arrythmias?”

“He’s been in normal sinus rhythm since your last report.”

Over six hours of stability, then.

As McCoy walked out of the office, he squinted against the stabbing glare of the bright lights of the main bay. The sudden noise and bustle was an abrupt shock to the silent darkness of the office, jolting his system.

He ran a hand through his hair as he walked to the end of the bay. The beds were still full, but the patients were out of danger and well on their way to recovery.

Jim being the exception.

McCoy nodded to the patients’ greetings as he passed by their beds. Most of them were sitting up in bed and looking alert, a fair number with a PADD in their hands. He could see their color had vastly improved, but they still looked fatigued. No one was going to recover from this ordeal quickly.

He focused on the bed at the far end of the bay. Jim’s golden head shone like a beacon under the lights.

A nurse – Donnor, he knew now – bent over Jim, speaking to him, her hand resting reassuringly on his arm. Coming closer, he could see that Jim’s eyes were open. Jim’s electric blue eyes were unnaturally bright and slightly unfocused. A nasal cannula was positioned under his nose, drawing attention to his pale lips.

For days, McCoy had struggled to keep the younger man from slipping away. It had been a balancing act of medications, blood replacement therapies and patience, as he watched Jim teeter from stable to critical and back again, his heart showing signs of stress. It had only been a little over six hours ago that Jim had stabilized enough for McCoy to take a proper rest.

McCoy quickly scanned the overhead monitor and was reassured by the readings. Ria’s report had been accurate, as usual. Stepping closer to the bed, he put a hand on Jim’s chest.

“Jim?”

Slowly, Jim turned his head toward McCoy, homing in on his voice. “Bones…?” he asked, his response faint.

“Yeah, kid, it’s me. How are you feeling?”

“Tired…”

McCoy smiled. “I’m not surprised given your lab values. You’ll be needing sleep for a while, until your body recovers. Your blood-pressure is still a little low, and we’ve given you some medication for your heart that tends to make you feel tired, too, but you’re doing much better.”

It took a long moment for Jim to process his words. He frowned, searching McCoy’s face. “What?”

“He’s been pretty confused since he awoke,” Donnor said in a low voice. “His recent memory seems to be affected.”

McCoy studied Jim’s expression closely. “Jim, do you know where you are?”

Jim closed his eyes for a long moment before opening them. “Hospital.”

“No. Not the hospital. You’re in Sickbay, on the _Farragut_.”

Jim’s frown deepened. “Why?”

“Do you remember coming onto the _Farragut_?”

Jim’s eyes began to clear. “Yeah,” he breathed. The expression on his face shifted as if he’d solved a particularly difficult problem. “I remember.”

McCoy studied Jim’s expression closely. Jim was a master at bullshit when he needed to be. Was Jim telling him what he wanted to hear or did Jim really remember? “What’s the last thing you remember? Do you know why you’re in Sickbay?”

“Explosion in Auxiliary DC. The console blew.”

McCoy schooled his expression, as his mind raced. If the explosion was the last thing Jim remembered, he had lost days, not hours, from his memory.

Not wanting Jim to know he was concerned, McCoy kept his voice even and calm. “Yes, you hurt your eyes. You were exposed to FLX10. We bandaged them after giving you emergency treatment.”

Jim slowly raised his hand to his eyes, as if to confirm what McCoy was saying. As his fingers touched his brow, his frown deepened in confusion. McCoy could see him searching his memory to fill the gaps.

“You had several rounds of regen therapy. They’re better now. All healed, with no lasting damage. You were very lucky.” McCoy narrowed his eyes, as a new concern emerged. “Are you having trouble with your vision? Can see me, Jim?

“I see you, Bones.” Jim’s hand dropped as exhaustion sapped his strength. “You need to shave or you’re gonna get dinged for being out of compliance. Garrovick’s a stickler for the regs.”

McCoy rubbed a hand over the thick stubble coating his face. The short, stiff hairs had begun to itch. “I’ve been busy.” He paused, considering his options. How much did Jim remember of the cloud creature? Exactly where did his last clear memory end? “What’s the last thing you remember, Jim?” he asked again.

Jim thought for a moment. “Pulling Ivy out. Hard to breathe. Couldn’t see.” He touched a hand to his chest.

McCoy glanced up at the monitor, but there was no significant change to Jim’s vitals.

“Ivy all right?” Jim asked.

McCoy looked back at Jim, pursing his lips. “What day is it?”

“2256.318,” Jim said without hesitation.

That was six days ago. Jim didn’t remember Ivy’s death, the cloud creature’s attack on the crew, Garrovick’s death or his own attack. The last thing Jim remembered had been the explosion that had started it all. It wasn’t unusual for patients who had experienced trauma, with or without anoxia, to have small gaps in their memory, but this length of time was more than a gap. Had the delay in getting his oxygen saturations up caused it? Was it temporary, given Jim’s injuries? Or was there permanent damage to his hippocampus or amygdala?

Jim blinked slowly as if to clear his vision and shifted in the bed. “That’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Damn. Even drugged and injured Jim was sharp. “Yes, but it’s not unexpected, given what you’ve been through. You were seriously injured but you’re recovering nicely. The best thing you can do is rest. We’ll talk again later, after you’ve slept, and reassess.” McCoy tried to smile reassuringly, knowing as he did that he probably looked like hell. How long would it take for Jim’s genius brain to unravel the reasons McCoy looked as tired and ill-groomed as Jim did?

McCoy straightened and withdrew his hand from Jim’s chest as he looked up at the nurse. “Get a complete brain scan, with detailed focus on the hippocampus, amygdala and cerebellum. Order another unit of packed cells and once it’s infused, draw another CBC.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

McCoy felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down, surprised to see Jim’s hand lightly gripping his tunic. “Jim?” He patted the back of Jim’s hand. “Try to rest. These are just routine tests and you can easily sleep through them.”

Jim looked at him with imploring, bleary eyes as exhaustion began to pull him down into sleep. He wouldn’t ask for it, McCoy knew, but he understood what Jim wanted.

“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll be right here,” McCoy said and pulled a chair over.

* * *

Jim’s head hurt.

McCoy had told him it was because of his low red blood cell counts and the regeneration therapy he’d had on his eyes – which Jim had no memory of – but he’d accepted the explanation without protest, reluctant to invite more questions about his memory.

His bed had been elevated and the privacy curtain had been partially pulled, leaving him with a limited view of Sickbay and the time to fret about why he’d been secluded from the rest of the crew and how much he wasn’t remembering. He’d been studying what he could of the medical bay for the past few hours, cataloging the coming and going of medical staff as they moved around in the fully occupied bay. There must have been a lot of injuries in engineering to account for so many beds being filled. A low hum of conversation filled the room, but it all seemed to be polite pleasantries, with no sense of urgency, so despite the numbers, the injuries must have been fairly minor for most of them.

He’d even questioned the nurses who’d slipped through the narrow opening, careful not to disturb the screen, about the status of the ship, but they’d simply smiled and told him everything was all right and to try and rest.

Which only pissed him off.

There was something wrong. He could feel it. The ship felt… off.

McCoy’s figure appeared suddenly in the curtain opening, distracting him from his thoughts. The doctor was clean shaven and he looked rested, crisply dressed in a fresh uniform. He walked directly to the foot of the bed and picked up the medical chart hanging there. With a flick of his finger, he powered it up and began to review the data, not bothering to even glance up as he said, “You must be feeling better. You ate all your breakfast.”

Jim hadn’t known how hungry he was until the first waft of scrambled eggs, bacon and warm toast tickled his nose, and his stomach had rumbled in response. He’d devoured his breakfast as if it were his last meal, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction at the fullness in his stomach.

Bones had a thing about Jim’s eating habits. It was always a tug-of-war between them and one of the easiest ways to begin or end an argument. But Jim didn’t want to talk to Bones about food. He needed other answers.

“Why are there so many crew in Sickbay?”

McCoy looked up suddenly from the chart, surprise written on his face.

“There were only four crew in Auxiliary DC,” Jim said. “There has to be over two dozen crew in here. Did something else happen?” He stared hard at McCoy. “Did the damage to engineering expand to other areas?”

McCoy sighed and set the chart back in its holder. “Jim, do you remember the cloud creature? The one you saw on Tycho IV?”

“Of course, I do.” He’d tried like hell to convince Garrovick it exist—

_A thunderous blast. A silent cloud of nothing rising on invisible wings. And immediately afterward, a different cloud of mist boiling forth, burning everything it touched. Danger. Coldness._

“It’s on the ship,” he said, as the memory of the cloud hovering over the console clicked into place. He leaned forward, pushing up from his arms. “I need to tell Captain Garrovick there’s an intruder onboard.”

“It _was_ here,” McCoy said, pushing Jim back into the pillows. “But it’s not anymore.”

Jim shook his head. That wasn’t right. The cloud creature only wanted them to think that. “It’s hiding.”

In the darkness of his memory, no images came forth, only an overwhelming certainty of a sly predator silently stalking them, like they were vulnerable and unsuspecting prey. When it had brushed over him and Ivy, he had felt its intelligence and cunning. And something else…

“ _No,_ ” McCoy said, pinning Jim with a stern glare. “Jim, it left. Days ago. The ship is safe and we’re on our way to Earth.”

“Earth? _Days?_ ” He scowled. “Wh- How long have I been here?”

McCoy flicked a brief glance up at the monitor before he answered. “About four days.”

They weren’t scheduled to return to Earth for two weeks. Even if they’d cut their mission short because of the explosion, and were headed back for repairs, the timing felt _wrong_.

His mind quickly dissected the timeline, poking at the holes in his memory. “Was the explosion only four days ago? It feels longer than that, Bones.”

McCoy regarded him soberly. Fuck, Bones was in full doctor mode. Whatever was wrong with him, it must be bad.

Jim’s heart galloped. “What aren’t you telling me? Why can’t I remember?”

“Calm down, Jim,” McCoy said. “I’ll answer your questions, but you need to stay calm. Your heart is still recovering. If you can’t stay calm, I’ll have to give you a sedative. Understand?”

Frustration flooded his body. Information was obviously being kept from him and he didn’t like being managed. But the look on Bones’ face told him that Bones was in no mood to compromise. No amount of argument or protest would get him what he wanted. Bones was wearing his doctor scowl, and that was never a good sign. The smart move was to appear cooperative and relaxed.

So, he nodded and made a deliberate attempt to take a few deep breaths and slow his racing heart.

McCoy looked up at the monitor again. Apparently satisfied, he looked back at Jim. “First, you can’t remember because your hemoglobin was dangerously low. Hemoglobin carries oxygen in the blood stream. It’s extremely likely your brain suffered some oxygen deprivation and your memory was adversely affected.”

_Fuck!_

McCoy held up his hand to calm Jim. “Your brain is fine. There’s no permanent damage, but there is some memory loss. Obviously.”

Jim remembered a full scan of his brain late yesterday while he was still drifting in and out of sleep. But that didn’t make sense. “FLX10 doesn’t impact hemoglobin. It’s a caustic chemical.”

McCoy nodded. “When the console exploded, there was a leak and the FLX10 fumes burned your corneas and some of your exposed skin. All of this was healed with our treatment and there are no lasting effects. Your vision is fine now, right?”

Jim nodded. He couldn’t remember his vision being a problem, but the nurses _had_ been paying a lot of attention to his eyes, scanning them and asking him questions, having him read a vision chart each shift.

“Okay,” McCoy said, sounding relieved. “That’s good. While you were recovering from the FLX10 exposure, your eyes had to remain bandaged until we finished the regen therapy. You were extremely fatigued and needed a lot of rest.” Pause. “You stayed in my cabin.”

Jim scowled. He could imagine Bones insisting on him staying under the doctor’s direct care, then blushed as he realized what it meant – Bones helping him to wash and dress and eat. Fuck. It was a good thing he couldn’t remember. How long had he been under McCoy’s care?

“Jim, the explosion in Engineering was six days ago.” McCoy gave Jim a moment to process that news before continuing. “You kept insisting the creature was on the ship and you wanted to tell Garrovick.” McCoy looked down at the floor. “I… didn’t believe you. I thought you were hallucinating as a result of your injuries. But then the cloud creature attacked the crew. We don’t know how it managed to get onboard, but it did.” McCoy sighed. “We now suspect the damned thing feeds on hemoglobin. It drained its victims of red blood cells.”

Jim searched his memory for images that would match up with Bones’ words, but he could find nothing but blankness. He remembered the pain in his eyes, hands on him, struggling…. “I got attacked?”

“Yes.” McCoy hesitated, searching Jim’s face closely. “It was after the explosion in Auxiliary DC. Your eyes were still bandaged. The creature had already attacked twice. Phasers seemed to have no effect on it, although we’re not certain the victims had time to fire their weapons. The ship was in lockdown while the crew tried to locate it.”

“They didn’t find it,” Jim said with certainty. His gut told him that it was good at hiding when it didn’t want to be found.

“No. Unfortunately. It attacked again.” Pause. “You were one of the lucky ones.”

Jim suddenly understood Bones’ hesitation and the guarded expression on the older man’s face as the reality of what he’d been told sunk in. “How many weren’t so lucky?”

“Hundreds.”

Jim felt the blood drain from his face. He shivered. How could one creature kill hundreds of trained Starfleet crew on a constellation class starship?

“Half the crew, nearly,” McCoy clarified. “Only a handful survived the attacks.”

That answered the question of why Sickbay was so full. And why none of his engineering friends had come to visit.

“Ivy? Abeer?”

McCoy’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, Jim.”

His head pounded. He swallowed past the dryness in his throat. “Captain Garrovick?”

“He was one of the first to die,” McCoy said quietly.

His mind spun, and he felt blind, straining to remember and finding only empty darkness. “We killed it?”

“No.”

He frowned. “But it’s gone?”

“Yes, Jim. It’s gone. We’re certain it’s no longer onboard.”

Facts started to come together, forming a shadowed picture of tragedy and loss, leaving him feeling anxious and uncertain. His head began to throb and he put a hand to his forehead, massaging it, searching for relief. “Will I ever remember it all?”

Bones shifted his weight, tilting his head in consideration. “I don’t know. The brain is tricky. Some people never recover their memories and others have full recall – sometimes all at once, sometimes incrementally.”

Which wasn’t comforting at all. “So, no guarantees.” Jim dropped his hand and expelled a heavy sigh. “How close to Earth are we?”

His question seemed to make Bones relax. The older man picked up his chart again. “About 36 hours. Can’t say I’m not sorry.”

But Jim was. His lips twisted. The universe screwed him every time he tried to escape his past. The _Farragut_ had been his opportunity to prove he was doing more than just riding on his father’s name, that he really did belong in Starfleet.

_“If you're half the man your father was, Jim, Starfleet could use you,” Pike said._

McCoy touched his shoulder, reclaiming his attention. Bones looked at him with concern.

“Hey. You did good, kid,” McCoy said. “You saved a lot of lives with your quick thinking. Garrovick was impressed with your analysis of the situation and your bravery during the explosion. He recommended you for an accommodation.”

Jim sank into the cushioned bio bed, suddenly feeling drained. It was all too much to deal with right now. Without the anchor of memories, McCoy’s words felt empty and meaningless. Two hundred dead. How could that be a win?

“You okay?” McCoy asked, his hazel eyes soft with concern.

“Yeah,” Jim said automatically and forced a practiced smile of reassurance to his lips.

McCoy raised an eyebrow without comment, then turned his attention back to the chart in his hands.

“I swear to God,” he groused, tapping away on the chart, “I will never complain about Starfleet General again. Unlike this tin can, they never run out of supplies.” McCoy looked up from his charting. “We’re going to have to work out a strategy for banking blood for you when you’re out on missions since you’re allergic to the synthetics.”

“How many times do you think I’m going to run into something like the cloud creature, Bones?”

The doctor snorted. “I suppose idiotic cadets with laser knives fall into that category, too?” Bones shook his head. “No, I’m beginning to think the ‘T’ in James T. Kirk stands for Trouble. Or Trauma. And we both better plan accordingly or we’ll end up between a rock and hard place, waiting for someone to bail our asses out.”

McCoy’s words sparked something – the memory of an unfamiliar nurse leaning over him while talking to someone about the _Lexington_ being happy to help out in a crisis. Had that been a dream? He looked out now into the medical bay as if to confirm the image, searching for a face to match the one in his memory.

“Jim?” McCoy asked on a rising note of concern.

Cold dread filled his chest. He didn’t look at Bones as he asked, “Was the _Lexington_ here?”

Silence.

“Bones?” he prodded, his dread increasing.

“Yes, Jim. They relieved us.” McCoy’s expression was stoic, disciplined and completely unreadable. The quintessential surgeon.

Dismay, jagged and icy sharp, pierced Jim’s chest, and he struggled to get his next words out. “Was my mother here?”

“If you mean did she visit you, yes, she did. For a short time. You were unconscious.”

“What did she want? Why did she come?”

A pained expression crossed McCoy’s face. “I think she just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

He chewed on McCoy’s words, few as they were, but the tightness in his chest didn’t let up. The black hole in his memory was cold and uninviting, and yet, he needed to know…

“Did… what did she say? Did she ask a lot of questions?”

McCoy held his gaze for a long moment and Jim tried to decipher what was going on behind the man’s green and gold eyes. But Bones was a master at concealing his thoughts and McCoy was getting way too good at reading him.

When he felt better, he was going to have to decide how he felt about that.

“She asked if you were going to recover,” McCoy said finally, and looked down at the chart, suddenly all business. “I told her you would.”

Jim looked back out into Sickbay. The _Lexington_ had done more than relieve them, they had provided relief staff, as well. “Is she gone?”

McCoy sighed and looked up from the chart. “Yes. She was only here briefly. Her duties required her to stay with the _Lexington,_ and they departed immediately after resupplying us. Although they assigned some of their personnel to us temporarily. Mostly relief for the medical staff.”

She could have stayed if she wanted to be here, Jim thought. She had enough pull with the Starfleet brass to get whatever she needed. No one told Winona Kirk ‘no’.

But, like always, duty came before family.

Duty would always come first with his mother.

That realization had been his first, hardest, and most bitter lesson.

“You’re thinking too hard,” McCoy said, interrupting his thoughts.

“You make it sound like a bad thing, Bones.” His words were numb and distant. He wouldn’t look at his friend.

“Too much of anything is a bad thing, Jim.”

He closed his eyes, willing the throbbing in his head to go away.

“Enough talking. You need to rest,” McCoy said with assertion. “You’re a long way from recovered.”

The bed suddenly moved, gently lowering him to lie flat. As the view of Sickbay disappeared, a wave of dizziness swept through him. He kept his eyes closed, waiting for the spinning to stop. But his thoughts hadn’t slowed. His mother had been by his bed while he was unconscious. What had she done? What had she said? Had she held his hand? His fingers curled into fists at the thought. He couldn’t remember a time when she’d been by his bedside, though he’d longed for it. It’d always been Sam who’d stayed with him as he recovered from an allergic reaction, or from one of Frank’s drunken rampages.

Now she’d come to him only to walk away. Again.

He opened his eyes to find Bones in his line of vision, staring down at him with a sympathetic expression, one that set Jim’s teeth on edge. He didn’t want sympathy. Even from Bones. Maybe especially from Bones.

He rolled onto his side, away from Bones, and closed his eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

“Congratulations,” Pike said, staring up at Jim from his seat behind his desk.

“For what?” Jim stood at attention, his gaze smartly focused on the wall behind Pike’s head.

“Starfleet’s Meritorious Achievement award. That’s quite an honor. Thought you’d be crowing about it all over campus,” he said, with a hint of humor. “Humility is not usually your cup of tea.”

Jim shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t remember much about it, sir.”

Pike studied Jim with concern. He’d read McCoy’s report. Several times. _Tires easily, still experiences headaches_ , had been the gist of it. Pike suspected McCoy had said as little as possible in Jim’s official record. The good doctor’s report had been heavy on medical fact and short on speculation.

Jim had been cleared to return to classes, but no maneuvers, critical exercises or hand-to-hand for another two weeks. Not that the limited clearance was going to delay Jim’s studies. He was already in third-year classes and was maintaining a perfect score without breaking a sweat.

_“He’ll recover completely in a few weeks. If he doesn’t get bored and sabotage his own efforts,” McCoy had said drily._

_“What about his memory?”_

_“There’s no brain damage that we can find. Memory issues are trickier. He could recover the memories in time.”_

_“Or not.” He scrutinized McCoy, wondering if the doctor was telling him everything. Years of space travel and experience with inter-species relations had made him damn good at reading others. But McCoy was an unreadable stone face and seemed impervious to his air of intimidation._

_“The time period he can’t remember on the_ Farragut _won’t impact his future mental competence,” McCoy said flatly. “There’s no need to worry about his academic abilities.”_

Despite McCoy’s reassurances, Jim was still pale… and a little wobbly. “At ease, Cadet. Have a seat and relax.”

Jim gracefully lowered himself in the chair opposite Pike, still avoiding making direct eye contact. He looked anything but relaxed, however.

“Captain Garrovick’s report said you tried to warn the ship about the cloud creature. That you’d seen it on the planet and insisted it posed a danger.”

Jim said nothing, his expression composed and remote.

“Hours before he died, he came to see you,” Pike continued. “In Garrovick’s Captain’s logs he stated he was impressed with your intuition, your ability to analyze and extrapolate possible outcomes. I call that seeking answers to questions no one else was asking. Not to mention your bravery under duress during the explosion in Engineering.”

“Is there a point to this, sir?”

“You saved a lot of lives, Jim, with your quick thinking.”

“Two-hundred and forty-eight crew died, including Captain Garrovick. Quick thinking doesn’t matter if no one listens to you.”

“So you remember that?” Pike asked curiously, wondering if Jim’s dismissive tone was from remembering all of the gossip and isolation he had been subjected to after the away team had beamed back onboard suffering from heat exhaustion. None of that information had been in the official report. But Captain Alvarez had confessed over drinks how badly he had failed Cadet Kirk.

 _“Jim Kirk is head and shoulders above the kind of cadets we usually get on these training missions, Chris. He never stopped insisting that the creature was real. Even when the crew ridiculed him for it.” Alvarez took a deep drink of his beer. “I should have believed him. We_ all _should have believed him. Garrovick might not be dead if we had listened sooner.”_

“Of course. That was before the explosion. As for afterward… I read the reports,” Jim said.

“So did I. _“Cadet Kirk demonstrated uncommon bravery and heroism that resulted in saving four crew and preventing exposure to a toxic chemical for the entire deck.”_ Garrovick doesn’t give out compliments easily, and he doesn’t seek out counsel without good reason.”

“Those men died a few days later when the creature attacked,” Jim stated stoically. “Sir.”

_Ouch._

Pike leaned back in his chair and pinned Jim with a steady gaze. Whatever was going on in the young man’s head, it was clear he wasn’t going to be cajoled out of his dark mood. “What’s really bothering you, Jim?”

Jim shifted slightly in his chair. It was the first sign he was uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, son.”

Jim looked at him. “I was right.”

Pike tipped his head to the side. “And?”

“And they didn’t listen to me.”

Ah, now he understood. He was doubly glad he’d invited Captain Alvarez out for a drink.

Pike leaned forward. “You think your reading of the situation was correct. And in hindsight, it was. But your viewpoint wasn’t the only one to be considered, Jim. There was an entire starship filled with intelligent, capable crew and a seasoned command team overseeing them. A command team that evaluates all crew inputs, not just that of one individual. As captain, Garrovick made the best decisions he could, based on what he knew at the time. Sometimes, that isn’t good enough. Regardless, if you want to be in command, you have to learn to listen to everyone. To trust your team. It isn’t just about one person.”

“But I was right,” Jim said again stubbornly.

Pike frowned. “Are you even listening? Yes, you were right. But you could just as easily have been wrong. You had damn few facts to back up your gut.”

“So all that talk about “leaping without looking” was just a recruitment come-on?”

Pike squeezed the bridge of his nose, fighting a growing sense of exasperation. “Not at all. I meant every one of that speech, son. Listen—"

“They didn’t have to die,” Jim averred passionately, his blue eyes flashing with anger. “We could have gotten it off the ship b—”

“Maybe,” he interrupted firmly. “Maybe not. HQ will do an AAR and we’ll thoroughly review the findings. That’s how the system works.”

The muscles in Jim’s jaw jumped as he ground his teeth, no doubt to keep from arguing further. Jim Kirk was rarely at a loss of words.

Pike tried another approach, hoping to steer their conversation into calmer waters. “You earned a commendation that is usually reserved for seasoned crewmembers, while on your first ship duty assignment – an assignment that normally only goes to third year cadets. You survived an attack that had an 85% fatality rate and you saved the lives of the crew around you.” He stared compassionately at Jim. “You performed above and beyond, Jim. Sometimes that has to be good enough, despite the outcome.”

Jim scoffed under his breath and looked away. The memory of Jim sitting across from him in the deserted bar, eyes glazed from too much alcohol, blood running from his nose and a chip on his shoulder the size of Iowa, flashed into his mind. When Jim turned back to him, his expression was a combination of anger and indignation.

“We could have done better,” Jim said, his tone harsh.

Pike sighed. Two years ago, Jim Kirk had reacted scornfully to Pike’s assessment of his father, of George Kirk’s instinct to leap without looking, of his disbelief in no-win scenarios.

_“Sure learned his lesson,” Jim said, his words laced with bitterness._

Now that same young man was making an argument that would have done his father proud in its disregard for undue caution or self-promotion. George Kirk, after all, had given his life to support those same beliefs. Although Pike was certain that wasn’t what Jim wanted to hear.

After all, medals for bravery were cold comfort when the people you cared about around you died.

A SHORT TIME LATER…

McCoy stepped outside the medical facility and paused long enough to stretch and take a deep breath of fresh air. Winter was here, and the weather today in San Francisco was brisk and chilly, despite the sunshine. The cold, damp air coming off the Pacific Ocean seeped inexorably into his bones through the soft fabric of his cadet uniform, making him long for a hot cup of coffee. The flooding sunlight, all brightness without any heat, did nothing to chase away the dampness and chill.

It was his second winter in San Francisco. This time last year, he’d thought he’d never get used to it – the constant wind and erratic temperatures, so different from the familiar landscape of Georgia, had left him feeling permanently cold. But he felt a little more indulgent about the weather today. After nearly a month on the _Farragut_ inhaling nothing but processed, filtered air in an environmentally controlled tin can, he couldn’t find enough outrage to bitch about the cold and damp. Fresh air was fresh air, and he’d be damned if he was going to complain because it wasn’t exactly to his liking.

“Coming or going?” Phani, one of the second shift nurses on the surgical floor, asked as she passed him on her way into the building.

McCoy eyed her. She looked disgustingly well-rested, and a pleasant smile graced her dark features. A far cry from the way the _Farragut’s_ medical team had looked by the time they arrived at Earth-dock. Not her fault, he reminded himself.

“Going. I’m done for the day. Unless some idiot gets himself injured and needs surgery.”

“Or herself,” she corrected cheekily, her eyes twinkling with mischievousness. She smiled and waggled her fingers in farewell. “Enjoy the rest of your day, Dr. McCoy.”

He grunted, acknowledging her correction, and nodded as she cheerfully bounced up the steps, taking them two at a time with such unbounded energy that it made him tired just to watch. He’d just finished a double shift, one where he’d spent hours tending sprains, lacerations, broken bones, and a laundry list of other minor injuries, all of which could have been avoided if not for the extra practice sessions many of the cadets were shoe-horning into their schedule in order to prepare for the hand-to-hand finals that were beginning this week.

_Over-eager morons._

He was in an unusually bad mood and couldn’t quite pin down the reason for it. Shrugging, he chalked it up to fatigue and the vague dissatisfaction he’d been feeling since returning to Earth. He still hadn’t shaken off the horrific events that had occurred on the _Farragut,_ and assumed some of his surliness was due to having been trapped on the ship, surrounded by unforgiving space, watching crew member after crew member die. It was only after he was safely back on the ground that he’d had the time to realize he could have died, too.

Those thoughts had kept him company as he’d helped process the two-hundred plus dead crew members, a downright depressing assignment. He’d cycled between the morgue and its rows of dead bodies, to the clinic and its hyperactive, reckless cadets, a jarring transition, even when he was feeling rested. The contrast had grated on his nerves, especially today, when he’d worked eight hours in the morgue performing autopsies, then gone straight to the clinic for another eight-hour shift. He’d been looking forward to lunch with Jim as a reward for getting through all of it, but the young man had stood him up.

McCoy shook his head, trying to dislodge his dark thoughts, and walked across the commons along the path that would take him to the far side of the campus and to his dorm. Maybe Jim was resting, he thought with relief. He’d only released Jim two days ago from Starfleet General, with clear duty restrictions.

_“Come on, Bones. You said it yourself – I’m fine.”_

_“I said you weren’t going to have a cardiac arrest or—”_

_Jim rolled his eyes. “That was one time. And I had a good reason.”_

_“—a seizure. That doesn’t mean you’re cleared for hand-to-hand combat or PE. For Christ’s sake, Jim, give your body a chance to heal before you put a few more gray hairs on my head.”_

_“But—”_

_“No, buts, Jim,” he said sternly. “I don’t want you over-exerting your system.”_

_“I’ll be careful.”_

_McCoy snorted. “You wouldn’t know ‘careful’ if it bit you in the ass. Which it’s gonna do, if you don’t listen to me.”_

_Jim huffed, the picture of injured innocence. “Trust me, Bones. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”_

_“I’ll believe that when I see it.”_

_“Well, what_ can _I do?”_

_McCoy sighed and put down the chart he’d been updating to give his full attention to Jim. Sitting on the edge of the bed, with his legs dangling over the side and swinging restively, the kid looked about sixteen. A stranger would never guess he was approaching his twenty-fourth birthday._

_“Academics. Use your time to study for finals or get a jump-start on the reading in your jam-packed, next semester class schedule.”_

_“I don’t need to study. And I’m tired of reading.”_

_“Reading gives you a headache, you mean, which just proves my point.”_

_Jim shot him a dirty look._

_“I’m sorry, kid, I really am, but it’s going to take a little more time for you to get back to 100 percent.” McCoy sighed. “Look, you can do pretty much anything you want that doesn’t require getting yourself beaten up or dropping a thousand kilometers through the atmosphere in a kamikaze nose-dive or sending your vitals through the roof running the obstacle course.”_

_“Successful completion of those activities are part of my required classes,” Jim said, staring down at his lap. “I can’t finish the semester without them.”_

_McCoy studied him for a long moment. Jim had been particularly subdued and withdrawn since waking in the_ Farragut’s _Sickbay. McCoy wondered if Jim was still brooding about his mother’s impromptu visit at his bedside, or worrying about something else entirely._

_God knows, with Jim Kirk, it could be anything._

_McCoy lobbed some stones at the minefield in an attempt to provoke a reaction and discover what was troubling his friend._

_“Pike will allow you to make them up once you’re off restricted duty, even if you have to do it over the holiday break. So, what’s the real problem? And don’t give me some bullshit about completing your classes when everyone else does. You’re already almost a full academic year ahead of your classmates. With a perfect grade point, to boot. I’m surprised none of your fellow cadets have strangled you in your sleep yet, due to uncontrolled jealousy and a desire to eliminate the competition.”_

_“Very funny.”_

_“So, what is it? Usually, when a patient is this reticent to talk, it’s about sex.”_

_“I suppose that’s on the restricted list, too?”_

_“Depends. I’d say as long as you’re not planning on trying every position in Rosenstein’s The Ultimate Sex Manual in a single weekend, you should be fine. Might make you a little short of breath or light-headed.”_

_“The usual, you mean,” Jim retorted automatically, but McCoy could easily see his mind was elsewhere._

_“Talk to me, Jim.”_

_Jim kept his head bowed and McCoy could see the tension in his shoulders. After a long minute, he sighed and raised his head. His blue gaze was earnest._

_“What if I can’t keep up when classes start?”_

_McCoy blinked. He felt stunned. What the hell was this? Jim Kirk had never been doubtful about his skills, mental, physical or sexual. Quite the opposite, in fact, as Jim had always been annoyingly confident. And then things clicked into focus._

_“Jim, are you worried about your comprehension ability? Is this about your memory loss?”_

_“I still can’t remember what happened onboard the_ Farragut _after the explosion, Bones.”_

_“Jim, you may never remember. This type of memory loss doesn’t impact your I.Q. or your academic aptitude. The lack of oxygen you experienced interfered with your brain’s ability to recall a very small and very localized sequence of memories. Temporary or permanent amnesia, as a result of such conditions, is not uncommon, but it has no impact on your ability to recall information acquired before and after the missing time period.” He looked at his friend confidently. “There is no brain damage per se, and you should still remember everything you hear, see and read, as well as you did before this happened.”_

_Silence._

_Finally, Jim shrugged. “It’s weird… having things happen to you and not remembering.”_

Like your mother coming to visit.

_McCoy took a breath. Jesus, the kid looked like he’d lost his best friend. He laid a hand on Jim’s shoulder. “I know. You might find it helpful to read the reports, to try and fill in the gaps. But Jim, I don’t want you to obsess about this. This might be one of those things that you just have to let go.”_

McCoy adjusted his grip on his medical kit and shook his head. He shouldn’t have been dispensing advice on the virtues of letting go to Jim, or anyone else for that matter. After all, he was still hanging on to the memories of his bitter divorce, nursing them like a deeply imbedded splinter. Self-disgust rose, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, and he deliberately switched mental gears, using the long walk across the commons as a welcome distraction.

It wasn’t long before he caught sight of a familiar figure.

“Jim!” McCoy called, raising his free arm to get the young man’s attention. His medical kit – never far from his side – bumped against his leg.

Jim was walking at a rapid pace, crossing the Academy grounds in long, determined strides. Instead of scoping out his surroundings, as he usually did, his head was down. McCoy knew the signs well; Jim was upset.

“Jim!” he called out again, as he began to walk briskly toward his friend, intent on discovering what was troubling his friend.

This time, Jim heard him, and his head jerked up, revealing a scowling face. McCoy noted the tension evident in Jim’s rigid posture as he waited for McCoy to close the distance between them.

“You didn’t show for lunch,” McCoy said, coming to a halt two steps away. He’d long ago picked up on Jim’s need for a generous amount of personal space when he was troubled, and the adjustment was habit now. “I was worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Jim said shortly.

McCoy studied him closely, wondering if Jim had eaten anything at all today. Jim’s appetite had been nearly non-existent since their return to Earth. McCoy’s assigned lunch break had been hours ago, and Jim was looking pale and drawn.

“Did you eat? You’re looking like your burners are on low.”

“I ate, Bones,” Jim said. “I had a big breakfast.”

Which was probably a lie, but McCoy let it slide. “Thought we were going to meet.”

“Pike wanted to see me,” Jim said, looking away. “I tried but he wouldn’t let me postpone the meeting.”

“Something wrong?” McCoy had met with Pike yesterday and they’d reviewed Jim’s medical report at length. Pike hadn’t seemed satisfied with McCoy’s answers and now he wondered if Pike had called Jim in for a meeting to fish for more information. He hoped the captain hadn’t subjected Jim to another debrief. Jim had already had too many of those, in his opinion.

“He wanted to congratulate me on my commendation.” Jim frowned. “He could have sent me a comm, instead of wasting my time patting my back for something I can’t remember.”

Relieved that the meeting was nothing more serious, and that the commendation had gone through despite Garrovick’s death, McCoy smiled. “He’s proud of you, Jim. And so am I. Congratulations. The commendation is well-deserved, in my opinion. Probably won’t be the last one in your career, either.”

Jim scowled again, his mouth tightening.

“I’m not trying to chase chest-candy, Bones. I just want to go into the black and be a good officer.”

_Well, clearly, that had been the wrong thing to say._

But then, he hadn’t been sure what to say to Jim these past few days. No topic was safe. Between the incident on the _Farragut_ , Jim’s memory loss and the unexpected visit from his mother, his mood had been unpredictable. Even asking what Jim would like for dinner last night had turned into a verbal tussle.

“Maybe we could get together for dinner?” McCoy proposed, trying to find a safer subject.

“Sure,” Jim said, his tone less than enthusiastic.

“Call me when you finish class, and I’ll meet you. You can choose where we go.” Even if it was for burgers and fries.

“I don’t have any more classes today.” Jim blew out a deep breath and looked past McCoy. “I’d like to go somewhere and get a stiff drink, but my doctor wouldn’t approve.”

Which was true. McCoy was determined to get Jim’s weight back up to where it had been before the training cruise, recover the pounds Jim had shed so frighteningly fast on the _Farragut._ As a result, he had placed Jim on a strict nutritional regimen. Obviously, Jim was having trouble following the guidelines, since he’d skipped lunch to meet with Pike.

It was also clear that Jim hadn’t been sleeping well, judging by the shadows beneath his eyes. He needed time, McCoy knew. Time to reconcile everything that happened and come to terms with it. But that wasn’t something Jim was going to do easily. And clearly the kid wasn’t going to ask for help. He didn’t need a doctor, McCoy realized. He needed a friend.

“Fuck him,” said McCoy and wrapped an arm around Jim’s shoulders. “I won’t tell, if you don’t.”

THE END  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes year two of the Academy Series. Up next: Year Three, where we explore Jim's psychology.
> 
> Thank you for reading and sharing this journey with us.


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